


Nothing Like the First Time

by Kienova



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F, F/M, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 07:58:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 31,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6946567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kienova/pseuds/Kienova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty ways Patrick and Shelagh could have shared their first kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You were right to send for me,” Patrick said, concern lacing his voice as he turned to look at Sister Julienne. The older woman frowned, leaning against the wardrobe as he took out a syringe, measuring out a dose of antibiotics.

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Sister Julienne commented. “ ** _The fever seems to have taken all of her senses._** ” Her eyes flickered to the prone woman on the bed, watching the sweat bead on the girl’s forehead as she thrashed about, Patrick holding her arm steady until he could inject the medication.

“Could you get me some cool water and a few cloths? I’m going to see if I can bring her fever down,” the doctor explained, sitting on the edge of the bed once he used syringe was safely stored away. “I... I think it best if I take her cap off as well,” he added, cringing internally at what Sister Julienne would think of such an outlandish suggestion.

“Of course, whatever needs to be done to restore her health. I’ll be back in a moment.” With that she swept from the room, leaving Patrick to carefully lift Sister Bernadette’s head from her pillows and take her cap off, gently releasing her plait and moving it to lie against her neck. He sighed to himself, hating how his heart ached at the sight of her. Even pale and clammy he found her utterly beautiful, her glassy blue eyes blinking up at him, unseeing in the fog of her illness. She tried to sit up then, but Patrick caught her shoulders, holding her down with little force, watching the struggle flee from her body in seconds.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face, noticing how she pressed her cheek into his palm, seeking the cool temperature of his skin against her. He looked up, careful to make sure he appeared the consummate professional as Sister Julienne came back into the room, his hand returning to his lap despite the groan of dissatisfaction that escaped Sister Bernadette.

“I can do this if you have patients to see to Doctor,” Sister Julienne offered, resting the basin of water on the nightstand.

“It’s quite all right,” he assured her, hearing the telephone ring in the distance. “Besides, I think your patients are a little more pressing than my district rounds for this afternoon.” She gave him a wan smile before retreating back into the hall at the sound of her name being called by Trixie. Patrick took one of the towels from the basin, squeezing out the excess water before dabbing it across Sister Bernadette’s hairline and down her neck, sighing when he saw her relax at the cool sensation of the fabric. He spent the next little while repeating the process, trying to control his gaze every time he swept the cloth over her collarbones.

“Doctor,” Sister Bernadette said suddenly, drawing his attention to her face. She muttered something that he didn’t catch.

“I’m sorry Sister, I didn’t hear you,” he said, leaning closer, his eyes catching hers as she tracked his movements.

“I should like very much if you would stay here forever,” she breathed, voice so quiet he nearly missed it again. What stunned him into silence, however, weren’t her words, but rather her surging upwards, pressing her lips to his. He froze for a moment, heart pounding in his chest. He shouldn’t be doing this; shouldn’t be allowing her to act in such a way. She was sick; overcome with fever. He should pull away, ask Sister Monica Joan to take over the watch until someone else returned and could do it. Instead, he tilted his head, allowing her to continue with her unsure movements, gently shifting his lips against hers, his hand finding its way to her neck as he stroked along her jawbone with his thumb. When she tried to press further, opening her mouth and licking at the seam of his lips with her tongue he finally broke the kiss, jerking away from her. Sister Bernadette’s eyes remained closed, her cheeks now flushed with more than just fever as she reached up with trembling fingers, touching her lips.

“You don’t develop courage by being happy in your relationships everyday. You develop it by surviving difficult times and challenging adversity.” Sister Monica Joan’s commentary from the doorway felt like a punch to the stomach, his lungs seeming to seize in his chest. He couldn’t help but wonder how much she had seen and, if her mental infirmity would somehow be a blessing for once, keeping her from exposing what she more than likely had witnessed.

“Sister –” he started, eyes widening as she laughed, dashing away before he could ask her anything. His attention instantly snapped back to the bed as Sister Bernadette released a pained groan, her hand pressing to her forehead.

“The room is spinning,” she murmured. Patrick smiled sadly, reaching for the tablets on the nightstand, measuring the dosage.

“It’s the fever,” he said, helping her to sit up properly so that she could take the medication, chasing the pills with a few sips of water. He stayed with her until she fell asleep, not pressing to ask why she had kissed him, too busy letting the emotions the action invoked in him run rampant in his head. Sister Evangelina relieved him of his post just prior to lunch, sending him on his way with a pasty and assuring him she would call if the younger woman got any worse.

He didn’t find out that Shelagh had no recollection of their first kiss until the next time she fell ill with a fever, nearly two years into their marriage. She blushed worse at the realisation than she had when she had acted so impulsively.


	2. Chapter 2

“What on earth were you thinking?!” Patrick yells, having to break into a run in order to keep up with the tiny woman who was already rounding the corner of the next street. She doesn’t answer him, huddling in on herself to try and ward of the cold. He finally catches up with her just as she mounts the **_bridge_** , his feet skidding momentarily on a patch of black ice beneath the snow, causing him to curse under his breath. “Well?” he demands, chest heaving as he rounds on her, halting her escape.

“I was thinking that the patient needed help Doctor,” she retorts, looking up at him in the dim light from the lamp at the end of the bridge, snow swirling around her.

“He could have killed you!” he growls. He hates that she had taken such a risk; that she had gotten between him and a patient who was wielding a gun, sporting a nasty head wound and liable to act irrationally. She had managed to calm the man down, true, but only after he had gotten off a shot which had, luckily, missed her. But only by a few inches.

“But he didn’t,” she argues. He can’t help but growl at her, crowding her against the railing of the bridge, the wall pressing into her back, holding her captive between the stones and the man that looms before her.

“Do you have _any_ idea what it would have been like to see you hurt like that Sister Bernadette? To see you get shot? I would never have been able to forgive myself if something happened to you,” he rages, arms bracketing her small frame, his hands clutching to the snow-covered railing.

“Doctor –” she starts. She can’t finish her thought however, as he chooses that moment to swoop down on her, one hand cupping the back of her neck as he pulls her into a kiss. She stiffens for all of a second before melting into him as he devours her, his hands stroking down her neck and over her back, tugging her closer until they’re pressed completely together, the only thing separating them the fabric of their clothes, his suit and her habit, both covered with thick woolen coats. His tongue enters her mouth quickly, sliding along hers as they stay locked together, her own timid fingers clinging to his back as he lifts her, propping her against the wall of the bridge, thankful that it is one of the highest in Poplar so that she is in no danger of falling into the river as her legs come to bracket his hips. When he realises that he has stepped between her thighs and is pressing intimately against her he breaks away, taking deep gasping breaths as he drops his forehead to her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, dreading her reaction. Instead of the slap he’s anticipating he feels her gently carding her fingers through his hair, making no move to push him away.

“Shh, don’t apologise,” she responds, pressing her lips to his temple as he gently lowers her back to the ground, her arms looping around his neck so as to keep him from fleeing.

“Promise me you won’t risk you life like that again,” he begs, voice breaking, struggling to meet her eyes.

“Only if you promise to kiss me again,” she replies, breathless.  


	3. Chapter 3

From the moment he runs to her in the road she wants him to kiss her. Wants to know when it feels like to have someone she loves press his lips to hers. When he doesn’t she had accepts it, relishing in the feeling of his hands holding his coat closed, their weight against her sternum, warmth seeping through the fabric and into her chest despite the cool air. **_She’s too shy to ask him to kiss her, no matter how badly she wants him to._** Instead, she follows him back to the car. He holds her hand the entire way back to Poplar, stroking his thumb over her knuckles as Timothy rambles from the back seat, asking about the diagnosis of the butterfly’s post-mortem and telling her everything that she’s missed in the months of her absence. She knows that its silly, but she desperately wants to lean over to Patrick’s side of the car and kiss him. She doesn’t, blushing profusely at the idea and instead looking out the window, watching the open land turn into the city.

He drops her off at Nonnatus, again squeezing her hand as he walks her up to the door, Timothy bolting off down the street at the sight of some of his friends. She wonders, then, if he will kiss her good luck before she enters the building.

“Do you want me to wait for you?” he asks, playing with her fingers, his hands dwarfing hers as they stand on the stoop.

“I’ll be all right,” she assures him. “Thank you.”

“Shelagh,” he insists. “I’m happy to wait.” She smiles, accepting the gentle nudge he gives her when she finally opens the door, ducking into the hallway while he returns to wait at his car. As she walks to Sister Julienne’s office all she can think of is how much she wishes he had kissed her. She knew it was daft, thinking that she could draw enough strength from such an action so that she wouldn’t fall apart while revoking her holy orders, but she cannot shake the idea.

She finishes the paperwork quickly, her heart torn at the way Sister Julienne treats her before sending her on her way. She knew it would be difficult, knew that the other woman would view her differently, at least for a time, but she didn’t realise how much it would make her ache. Patrick is waiting for her outside when she returns, taking one look at her expression before pulling her into a hug as she cries into his chest.

“You’re all right, it’s all right,” he whispers into her hair, stroking her back as he gets her into the car, his hand tangling with hers again the minute he is in the driver’s seat. She wants to ask him to kiss her, to help her to feel that this is real, to know that it is worth it in her mind, even though she already knows it in her heart. She doesn’t, instead sitting quietly while he drives them back to his flat, promising to help her find somewhere to stay once she insists that she cannot stay with him for more than the afternoon. He knows she’s right, that they have propriety to keep to, despite how unconventional their relationship already is, so he agrees with reluctance.

He touches her the entire time she’s with him, whether it be a hand on the small of her back while she makes tea, already seeming at home in his kitchen with the kettle, or whether it’s clinging to her hand while they sit at the table. As much as he knows this might be too much, he can’t help it, needing to assure himself that she is truly there. That he can do this now – can touch her hand or her shoulder without fearing that it is crossing a boundary that had been between them the entire time he’s known her. When he’s stroking his fingers over her palm he can feel the scar there, the one place he ever touched her before he was allowed to, and it makes his heart race. She doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t try and turn her back on him, but rather smiles, although there is still sadness around her eyes.

“I should be going,” she says, the words coming out on a sigh as she notices the time. They had talked of the future the entire afternoon, an undercurrent of knowing that their lives would be entwined in every word, despite how they were not explicitly discussed. They’re still tentative around each other, and Shelagh knows its because of the changes that have happened. Knows that he’s still unsure of what he is allowed to do and, if truth be told, she is unsure as well. All she knows is she fervently wants to know what it feels like to kiss him. To know what his lips feel like when he’s licking into her mouth; what his hands feel like resting on her hips.

He walks her to the lodgings she’s going to be staying in, cupping her cheek for a moment before she enters the building. She had thought he might lean in and kiss her, but he doesn’t. Instead, he departs with a promise that he’ll see her the next day, asking her to meet him at the parish hall in the afternoon. She agrees without hesitation, watching him walk away through the window, her heart pounding in her chest.

The next day, he proposes to her in the kitchen where he first kissed her hand. She feels her heart seize up as he raises her hand to his lips, pressing them against her engagement ring, his fingers brushing along the scar on her palm. She wants to haul him upwards, to have him press her into the counter, but she doesn’t, blushing at her own thoughts as he stands, a grin that could light the entire city on his face.

“I love you,” he tells her, cupping her face in his palm, stroking his thumb across her cheekbone.

“I love you too,” she answers, heart racing at finally, **_finally_** , being able to say the words aloud without fear of anyone hearing them or the connotation they carried while she was still bound to her religious vows. It’s as if the words cause a tidal wave within him, for he is instantly stooping down and catching her lips with his, his one hand retaining its position while the goes to her hip, pulling her tightly against him as he kisses her. She lets out a slight noise, a cross between a yelp and a moan, as she succumbs to him, tangling her hands in his hair. When they break apart she’s completely breathless, her head spinning from the sensation as she stumbles slightly, Patrick’s soft laughter bouncing around the kitchen as he clutches her all the more tightly, brushing his nose against hers.

“I’ve wanted to do that for months,” he confesses, pressing one more kiss to her cheek before he steps back and away, returning them to a proper distance.

“I’ve wanted you to do that for months as well,” Shelagh retorts, flushed and beaming as he grabs her hand, tugging her out of the kitchen and towards the main doors.

“Come along, I want to see what it’s like to kiss you in the sunlight,” he insists, her giggles echoing through the hall as he pulls her outside, immediately making good on his promise.


	4. Chapter 4

Patrick was trying not to laugh as he stood at the edge of the room, watching his son and the other boys run around, the face paint covering more of their clothes than it did their skin. Fred, Cynthia, Jenny and Sister Bernadette had all succumb to the children it seemed, each adorned with colour on their faces. He wasn’t quite sure what Fred was supposed to be, the colours mismatched and forming no real pattern save for whiskers stretching across his cheeks and a large black nose.

“Dad!” Timothy exclaimed, a grin splitting his face as he rushed to his father’s side. Unlike some of the others, Tim seemed to have gotten a decent artist, as it was simple enough for Patrick to see that he was painted as a bear.

“It looks like you’ve been having fun,” Patrick commented, ruffling Timothy’s hair.

“Jacob is really good at this,” Timothy elaborated. “He’s much better at face painting than I am. And way better than Jack. You can’t really tell that Fred is a dog.” Patrick shook his head, well, that explained the large black nose he guessed.

“Nevertheless, it looks like you’ve all been having fun. Akela looks like he’s entertained with all of you, despite his questionable dog,” he said, watching at how Fred was grinning beneath the clown-like application of paint. “Go on, finish up, I’ve just got to pop into the kitchen to retrieve some instruments I left at the clinic earlier.” He watched Timothy bound away before heading through the plastic curtains, finding his things wrapped in a cloth bag at the end of the counter.

“I thought you might come looking for those,” Sister Bernadette commented, ducking through the curtain to lean her hip against the far end of the counter. Patrick smiled bashfully, biting his lip when he saw the black, pink, and white makeup on her face.

“You sound like Sister Bernadette, but you’re a **_cat_**. You haven’t eaten her, have you?” he asked, desperately trying to hold in his laughter at the sight before him. It was evident that Jacob had been the one to place the design on her skin, the features of a cat accurate and logical against her pale flesh. She rolled her eyes slightly and, on a regular day, Patrick would have seen it as much more forceful and full of exasperation. The pink nose and whiskers, however, made it impossible.  He dissolved into a mess of giggles, gripping the counter at her shocked expression. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, instruments forgotten as he clutched at his side, a stitch forming from the force of his laughter.

“Oh hush, the children wanted extra people to practice on,” she admonished with another eye roll. “Best watch out I don’t offer you up to be the next experiment, there’s still ten minutes left.” He staggered towards her, still chuckling loudly and, without warning, leaned in, his nose rubbing against hers for a moment before he dropped a kiss on her lips. Sister Bernadette froze, her eyes widening at the contact, her heart kicking up a staccato rhythm, her pulse accelerando with each passing second that he was touching her. She wasn’t sure whether it was a minute, an hour, or no time at all that he kissed her, but when he pulled back, eyes soft and full of adoration, it felt like it had not been anywhere near long enough. The look was gone in an instant, replaced by one of horror.

“Sister I... I am so, so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I... I should go. I’m sorry,” he raced passed her at that, leaving the instruments he had come to get on the counter again, bolting out of the parish hall. Sister Bernadette sagged against the counter, her heart rate dropping in a lentando beat until it was normal beneath her ribs once again. She took stock of herself then, her palms sweating, a slightly dizzy feeling remaining behind her eyes, and a sensation of purpose and love filling every atom of her being. Raising a shaking hand, she touched her lips, imagining that she could still feel him against her. Was that what it was like, she wondered, to be kissed by someone you love?

Timothy found his father sitting in the car when Cubs finished, his hands clenching the wheel as he stared blankly in front of him. Although the boy kept up a running commentary on their way home, Patrick didn’t reply, making non-committal noises when responses were necessary, despite his mind being elsewhere. Timothy just rolled his eyes, quickly noting his father’s lack of attention and lapsing into silence as they entered the flat, Patrick telling Timothy there was a cob from the butcher for him in the kitchen. It wasn’t until the boy was sitting at the table that he cocked his head to the side, a confused expression taking control of his features.

“Dad,” Timothy said, drawing out the word as if he was worried about completing his thought.

“Yes Tim?” Patrick asked, shaking himself out of his own head in order to look at his son, resting his elbows on the table.

“Why do you have a cat’s nose and whiskers on your face like Sister Bernadette?”  


	5. Chapter 5

Its Sister Julienne’s silence that worries him, especially with her defence of “I’m sorry Doctor Turner, I do not wish to concern you with my worries when I am certain you have so many of your own.” He follows her into her office without being asked, closing the door behind him and regarding her as she sits down at her desk, shuffling papers.

“Sister, tell me what’s going on,” he insists, feeling his chest tighten as a million fears swarm in his head. He watches the older woman sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose before she answers him.

“I spoke with the sanatorium today. **_Although Sister Bernadette is physically improving and seems to be responding well to the treatment, the doctors there have become increasingly worried about her mental state. They say she’s becoming withdrawn and depressed, sleeping the majority of the day._** I should like to see her in order to ascertain if there is anything I can do, but I am not sure if my presence will be a help or a hindrance. I worry about her, Doctor. She’s still so young and seems to have been struggling so much as of late, even before the tuberculosis. I just wish I knew how to help her,” Sister Julienne explains, shaking her head. “I’m sorry Doctor Turner, I didn’t mean to burden you with my concerns.”

“It’s all right,” he assures her, already letting his mind spin out of control. “We all need someone to talk to on occasion.”

“I trust you will keep this discussion between us? I don’t want to worry the nurses or my fellow Sisters. They have more than enough to deal with without this added news,” she says, watching Patrick nod.

“Of course Sister,” he rushes. “I’m sorry, I just remembered an appointment I must get to. If you ever... need someone to speak with about this again, please know my door is always open.”

“Thank you,” Sister Julienne smiles, going back to her paperwork as Patrick scurries from the room.

He makes it to the sanatorium faster than he probably should, his stomach tight with nerves as he hastily enters the building and requests to see Sister Bernadette. The nurse looks him over before seeming to accept that he is a doctor, taking him upstairs and down an endless hall.

“She’s been sleeping a lot,” the nurse says, stopping outside the appropriate room. “Be mindful if she’s asleep.” With that the woman departs, leaving him to enter the room on his own. The curtains are open, casting the waning sunlight across the bed, the red-orange beams highlighting the ginger and gold strands of her hair. He hesitates crossing the floor, taking in the sight before him. He can’t help but think how he’s never seen her hair prior to this moment, noting how beautiful it is, how it will compliment the blue of her eyes. Finally, he walks around the bed, finding her eyes closed, her breathing shallow as she sleeps, curled up in ball under the blankets.  He crouches down in front of her, scanning over her features, noting how she looks so similar and yet so different without her glasses.

He can’t help himself, calling her name as he strokes the back of his fingers over her cheek. She blinks her eyes open, squinting slightly until she can focus on his face, pressing her lips into his thumb in a kiss when he accidentally drags the digit over her mouth. He stops, heart pounding at the sensation of touching her in such a chaste and yet intimate way. When she pulls back from his hand her expression is full of sadness, her eyes dull in the fading light.

“If you were really here,” she starts, making the knot in his stomach grow. He hates how flat her voice sounds, the agony of depression lacing every word. “I would ask you to kiss me.” His heart stops at the admission, watching how she closes her eyes, seeming to accept that she is simply hallucinating or imagining his presence. He’s never kissed anyone from this angle before, with them lying prone on the bed and him kneeling on the hardwood next to it, but he’s easily swayed into attempting it. He leans forward, tilting his head until he can easily line their mouths up, touching his lips to hers. She melts into him, twisting herself until they’re kissing properly, her tongue shyly licking at the seam of his mouth. He opens to her with no hesitation, deepening the contact until he feels her shudder, needing oxygen as she pulls back, panting. He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, his heart still hammering in his chest as he sits back on his haunches, leaving one hand gently touching her neck.

Sister Bernadette opens her eyes after a few minutes of drawing air into her lungs, a blush spreading across her cheeks as she realises that he is, indeed, next to her bed. She scrambles into a seated position, her hand searching blindly for her glasses so that she can see him properly, a soft ‘oh’ escaping her when she settles her gaze upon him.

“You kissed me,” she states.

“Yes.” 

“Why?”

“You asked me to. I can never deny anything you ask of me,” he says.

“You’re actually here,” she whispers a second later, her eyes dropping to her hands as they play with the edge of the blanket.

“Yes,” he assures her, reaching out until he can catch her fingers in his. “I am. And I will stay here, with you, as long as you ask me to.” The tinting on her cheeks deepens at that, letting him feel how her hands tremble against his.

“Why?” she questions, voice quiet in the room, the final rays of sunlight casting them in shadow.

“Because I love you.”


	6. Chapter 6

She’d been staring at his **_hair_** for the last five minutes, fighting the mounting urge to fix it. He had run his hand through the dark strands half an hour ago while he was working on his patient notes, and he had yet to repair the damage he had done. While his fringe still brushed his forehead, the rest of his hair was sticking up in various directions.

“Doctor looks quite... dishevelled today,” Trixie commented, leaning against the counter in the kitchen, removing her cap and shaking her hair back around her face.

“Trixie!” Cynthia admonished, gently smacking the blonde on the shoulder.

“What?! I was just making an observation,” Trixie muttered, turning to deal with the array of instruments she had laid out on the counter earlier. Sister Bernadette tried to ignore them; waiting for the kettle to boil, but her gaze kept drifting across the room to where the doctor was writing notes on one of the cots. Absently he reached up, running a hand through his hair again while sighing loudly.

Trixie snickered, earning herself another swat from Cynthia as the two cleaned their instruments as best they could without an autoclave, taking note of what they would need to restock. Sister Bernadette, on the other hand, poured a cup of tea, grabbing a few biscuits before she headed out of the kitchen and towards the other end of the hall.

“Doctor?” she asked, startling the tired looking man. He blinked up at her before a smile appeared on his face.

“Sorry Sister, lost in my own mind,” he muttered.

“No need to apologise. It happens to all of us. I thought you might like some tea,” she offered, holding out the cup and saucer to him. He took it with another grin.

“You’re an angel,” Patrick murmured, humming in the back of his throat as he took a sip. She couldn’t help but blush slightly, averting her gaze for a moment. Patrick set the saucer down on the cot, closing his eyes as he sighed. She could see the exhaustion lining his face, the dark circles under his eyes. He would never admit it, she knew, but the memory of the mother and child he had lost to an abruption the previous night was weighing heavily on him.

Before she could stop herself Sister Bernadette found that she was standing next to the physician, her fingers reaching out to card through the man’s hair, trying to tame it. Inadvertently she increased the pressure of her hand, massaging his scalp and causing a soft moan to escape him. She cringed, realising what she was doing a moment too late, feeling him lean his head into her torso, encouraging her to continue by his reaction. As much as she knew she should stop, she couldn’t find it in herself to do so, noting how the man seemed more relaxed than he had in days as her fingers moved across his head.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, fingers moving from his forehead to the nape of his neck and back in lines and circles, feeling the silky hair slip through her digits as the tension ebbed from his body. By the time her motions slowed she wasn’t sure if she had repaired any of the damage he had done to his hair, or if she had made it worse, passing her digits through it once more to try and settle it against his scalp as she took her hand away. Patrick opened his eyes, looking up at her with adoration, his expression softer than she had ever seen it. She felt her heart race in her chest, becoming slightly light headed from the emotions that gathered in her mind.

 _I love him_.

The thought accosted her in such a way that she lost control over her senses and actions. Without knowing what she was doing she smiled, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. Marvelling at the feeling of the soft skin against her own, it took her a moment to feel his hand suddenly finding its way onto her hip, holding her close. She had never felt anything like it before; her entire being narrowed down to the sensation of completion as she felt him move his lips against hers.

She broke away after a moment, her breathing ragged as she watched him grin up at her. He reached up, tracing his finger along her cheek.

“Sister Bernadette,” he started, halting almost instantly when he heard Trixie and Cynthia’s voices, snatching his hands back and dropping them back onto the cot, picking up his tea again.

“We’re heading to Nonnatus Sister, if you’d like to ride back with us,” Cynthia called.

“Of course, I’ll be there in just a moment,” Sister Bernadette answered, glad that her voice held steady throughout the words. She turned, grabbing her bag from where she had left it outside of the kitchen, moving to follow the nurses.

“Sister,” Patrick said, grabbing her wrist before she could escape but keeping his voice low. “Can we talk about what just happened?” She bit her lip, trying to fight back the tears that were building behind her eyes, her heart shattering at the knowledge that she couldn’t have him; that she shouldn’t want to kiss him again so badly.

“Not right now,” she managed to say, shaking his hand off and fleeing the parish hall. Patrick watched her go, sighing as he ran his hand through his hair, messing it up again as he sat back down. He knew he shouldn’t be but he was already thinking of ways that he could get to touch her again. After all, he had known he was in love with her for months.


	7. Chapter 7

She had just been playing around by putting up the various springs of **_mistletoe_** throughout the hospital. Men’s surgical was boring. The doctors strict, the majority of the nurses bustling in and out without acknowledging each other, the matron glaring whenever she passed through the ward. The patients were a dichotomy – half of them severely ill, the other half bored and itching to leave their beds and return to their homes, especially so close to the holidays. The only person she found half interesting was the pretty nurse who occasionally moved from women’s surgical to the men’s ward, covering when they were understaffed. They had a few laughs together, usually sharing the odd comment here and there about a patient, but otherwise her days were full of routine and lacking in social interaction beyond what she had with her patients.

Therefore, on the blustery winter day, when she had spotted the large springs of mistletoe being sold at a stall on her walk to work, Patsy had decided it was just the thing to liven up the hospital. Sneaking the plant past the matron’s office had been easier than she anticipated, trying not to giggle as she ducked into the cloak room, nearly running over Delia in the process. She grinned, apologising, her heart hammering in her chest at the smile she received in return.

“You look like you’re having a good start to the day,” Delia commented, stepping around Patsy to check her reflection in the mirror, making sure her cap was on straight.

“So far,” Patsy replied, chuckling as she hung up her coat. “What ward are you on today?”

“Men’s surgical; I’m afraid you’re going to have to put up with me all day,” Delia laughed, only then noticing the large cluster of green that Patsy had rested on the bench. “Do I even want to ask?” she added, leaning against the edge of the sink.

“Oh come now, you know this is the only way we can have a laugh at some of the doctors,” Patsy urged, digging out the roll of ribbon she had also purchased, setting it down next to the mistletoe. Delia rolled her eyes affectionately, going to one of the cabinets and retrieving a pair of scissors.

“I suppose you’re right,” she agreed, setting about cutting lengths of ribbon while Patsy sorted out her uniform. “Would you like to start this now or at the end of shift? Later might be safer as the majority of the staff will have gone home for the night. Then we could see the fruits of our labour tomorrow morning.”

“You’re wonderfully intelligent,” Patsy commented, brushing her hand over Delia’s shoulder as she picked everything up, tucking it into her cubby before motioning Delia towards the door.

By the time their shift ended, the hospital had been lulled into silence save for the few emergency cases that skittered through the halls and towards the operating theatre or the appropriate ward. After locating a cup of tea each, the two women snuck about the hallways, hanging mistletoe in random doorways and on various landings, trying not to giggle too loudly and attract attention from the few staff members that still roamed the halls.

“What made you think of this?” Delia asked, trying to keep her voice low as she held Patsy’s hips, the taller woman tying the latest spring to an exposed beam. She felt Patsy take a rough inhale, a nervous chuckle springing from her.

“Just thought it might be good for a laugh. Maybe let a few people have a kiss here and there instead of being alone through the entire Christmas season,” she replied as she climbed down off the chair. Delia smiled at her, nodding, eyes widening as they heard footsteps echoing down the hall. “Hide!” Patsy hissed, grabbing Delia with one hand and the chair with the other, dragging both into the adjacent hallway, glad of the poor lighting in that area of the hospital.

“Doctor Turner, what do you think the baby’s chances are?” came the voice of the woman, her Scottish lilt echoing off the empty hall.

“I... I’m sorry Sister Bernadette, I don’t know. They are definitely better now that both mother and baby are here in hospital... but with such weak lungs... only time will tell,” the male replied, a sigh escaping him. Their steps were slow and measured, their movements personifying the exhaustion and stress that laced their voices. Patsy tried not to jump when she felt Delia’s back brush her front, the shorter woman leaning around the corner so that she could see the people approaching. Patsy bit her lip, hesitating only a moment before following the actions of the other woman, lining her chest up to Delia’s back, one hand holding onto the wall so that she could balance as she regarded the couple.

“Whoops,” Delia muttered, watching how the doctor and the nun stopped underneath the mistletoe, the doctor running a hand through his hair while the nun looked at the ground.

“I just wish there was something more we could do,” Sister Bernadette muttered, arms wrapping around herself, trying to ward off the chill that swept through the plaster-covered halls.

“All we can do is be there for the family now and let the doctors here do their work. I’m sorry,” Doctor Turner answered, regarding the tiny woman with a look of concern before his eyes flicked up, noticing the mistletoe above their heads. His eyes widened at the sight, his chest aching. “I...” he started, unable to finish his thought. Sister Bernadette glanced up, following his gaze. The minute she noticed the plant above them she began blushing profusely, her throat tightening at the thought as her palms started sweating, her pulse thundering in her ears.

“Doctor -” she started, letting out a gasp when he ducked down, pecking her quickly on the lips. She felt dizzy from the contact, trying desperately to convince her knees to continue holding her weight.

“Its tradition,” he whispered, a flush covering his own cheeks as his hand went to her wrist, stroking the skin over her pulse with his thumb.

“Oh,” Sister Bernadette mumbled, her voice breathless. “I... is there anything in the tradition that says... that we can... is mistletoe only good for one kiss?” At the question, Patrick beamed, ducking down to kiss her again, this time letting his hands rest on her waist, pulling her a little closer.

“Oh my goodness,” Delia giggled, grabbing Patsy’s hand in a rough squeeze. “What a scandal!”

“It’s definitely not what I expected,” Patsy whispered in reply, trying to bite back her own grin, both at the strange turn of events they had just whispered and from the feeling of Delia’s hand in her own. “We should go before they notice us,” she urged after enjoying the contact for another few seconds, realising that the doctor didn’t look like he was willing to stop kissing the nun anytime soon. Delia nodded in agreement, quietly gathering their things as the snuck off down the hall. By the time they reached the next wing of the hospital they couldn’t contain their mirth, bursting into peals of laughter as they clung to one another, trying to keep from collapsing.

“She’s a NUN!” Delia squealed, her eyes watering. “I thought we might catch Doctor Evans with Nurse Thompson, you know how much they hate one another, but my goodness, this is fantastic.”  

“It is. To think, they’ve obviously had feeling for a while, and to finally be able to find a way to express that... it may be scandalous, but its also beautiful,” Patsy mused, a sad smile playing about her lips.

“You’re right. It can be beautiful to finally tell someone how you feel,” Delia replied, letting her hand slide down from Patsy’s arm to her hand, twining their fingers together. “Pats,” she started, biting her lip as she glanced up at the other woman from beneath her lashes.

“Yes?” Patsy queried, feeling her heart start racing in her chest.

“We’re standing underneath mistletoe.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of abortion and rape. Nothing graphic, but it is mentioned, although no more than it is in the actual show.

She hadn’t felt like such a child since she was ten, getting scolded for having accidentally sent the neatly swept pile of soot from the fireplace all over the kitchen while playing. She sat completely still, save for her fingers which fidgeted aimlessly with the ring on her right hand, twirling the band in constant circles.

“Do you have any idea what your actions could have done?” Sister Julienne asked, voice calm but laced with acid.

“Yes,” Sister Bernadette replied, keeping her voice low. She knew she had been foolish, that she had gone against her beliefs and those of the church by assisting the young woman in finding a reputable doctor to perform an abortion under the table. She had fought with herself for hours, if not days, before she had led the young woman to the man’s house, holding her hand while he injected her with the substance that would take away her condition. Normally, she would have never even considered such a thing, but considering the girl had been raped...

“If anyone, and I mean _anyone_ finds out about this, you could face charges in court. You could be dismissed from your orders. You could bring down the wrath of God and the law not only on yourself, but on all of Nonnatus. You are to go straight to your cell and pray for that girl. For that baby. And to beg forgiveness of your actions. I do not wish to see you again before Compline and I will have Sister Evangelina remove you from the maternity roster for the next two weeks.” The words were thrown across the table with such vitriol that Sister Bernadette almost wished Sister Julienne had slapped her instead. Part of her wanted to rebel, to yell that she had done what was best for the mother, that she would hope someone would understand enough to have done the same for her, had she been in the girl’s position, and if that was what she needed to be able to rise from bed the next morning and survive. It was one thing to be denied an abortion when a woman was married and had a support system, but to deny it of one that had been assaulted caused her blood to boil.

“Yes Sister,” she gritted out, keeping her eyes on the floor as she slipped from the room, heading up the stairs. She had always been calm as a child, and now, as an adult, she had been the same. Always keeping her anger in check. Keeping her emotions locked carefully behind a soft façade. Obeying all the instructions she was given from Sister Julienne now, and her parents when she was growing up.

But she could feel her ire rising more quickly than she ever thought possible as she mounted the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, ignoring how the action made her calves and thighs burn. She resisted the urge to slam her door, but only just, instead grabbing the first item she could find – a mug – and whipping it against the wall, the cracking noise satisfying her in a way she didn’t know she needed. She tore at her clothes, tossing the habit and wimple onto the bed, removing the garments that bound her to obedience, if only for a moment. She stood in nothing but her slip, her chest rising and falling as she sucked in breath after breath, trying to temper her anger and make her lungs stop seizing beneath her ribs.

As much as she knew that Sister Julienne was correct in her fears of retribution from both church and state, Sister Bernadette couldn’t find it in herself to care. She knew the bed she was making for herself when she took the girl to Croydon Road. As much as she wanted to fight against the commands she was given, she found herself dropping to her knees in prayer, whispering one litany after the other, praying for the girl. For the child that would never be. That both would find peace in God’s eyes, and that the girl could move beyond the horrible situation she had endured.     

She stayed like that for hours, saying prayer after prayer, psalm after psalm, repeating every word from the bible she knew until the pain in her knees dissipated into numbness, the ache in her chest abating into a dull throb beneath her ribs. It wasn’t Sister Julienne that found her like that, but rather Sister Evangelina, the woman leaning against the door for a moment before she touched Sister Bernadette’s shoulder, drawing her out of her own head.

“I’m not going to ask any questions about,” she waved her hand over the bed, indicating the discarded clothing and the pieces of porcelain that lined the floor by the window, “any of this.” Sister Bernadette felt herself flush as she grabbed for the robe she had left at the end of the bed that morning, swinging it around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry Sister, I –” she started, halting when Sister Evangelina raised a hand in front of her, a stern expression on her face.

“Doctor Turner is downstairs. He needs help with a difficult patient and everyone else is out with patients, save for myself, but I can’t very well leave Sister Monica Joan on her own with the way she’s been acting the last few days. Get yourself sorted, quick as you can, and go help the poor man before he treads a hole in the floor.” The older woman rolled her eyes when she saw the younger struggle to stand, fighting against limbs that had frozen in place from immobility. Without prompting Sister Evangelina helped her up, assisting in her hasty task of redressing before she started shoving her towards the door.

“Sister, is this a maternity case? Sister Julienne has said I –”

“I know very well what Sister Julienne said. And while I respect her as our matron and as the Sister running this house, I also think it is a bunch of codswollop when you’re one of our best midwives.”

Before she could ask any more questions she found herself at the bottom of the stairs, Sister Evangelina shoving her clinical bag into her hands and being pushed towards where Doctor Turner was standing, looking anxious. She followed him on instinct, listening to him speak, telling her of the labouring mother that seemed to refuse any attention, but that had been struggling to deliver for almost twenty-four hours. He told her of his worries for the baby – that it may not survive the trauma. How he needed someone experienced with him to care for both mother and child. She didn’t ask him anything as he drove them to the house, rushing up the stairs with both their bags in his hand as she trailed behind him.

It was almost an hour before things had calmed, the mother finally succumbing to their assistance, letting them help her deliver the baby. It was barely breathing as Sister Bernadette hastily moved to the other side of the room, rocking the child and breathing air into its lungs until it let out a screech, flailing in her arms. She bit back the tears that wanted to overwhelm her at the sight, feeling the tiny fists and feet kicking at her chest as she wrapped the infant and carried him back to his mother. Doctor Turner smiled at her, an exhausted expression on his face as they went through the rest of the post-delivery routine – collecting the placenta, washing both mother and baby, restoring calm to the household.

She lasted until they were walking back to his car, her armour finally breaking as he opened her door, tears gathering so quickly in her eyes that she couldn’t blink them back anymore. Doctor Turner looked alarmed, hurriedly ushering her into the vehicle before he climbed into his own seat, pivoting until he could look at her.

“Are you all right?” he asked, hesitantly reaching out until his hand curled around her wrist, noting how she nodded despite her crying quickly turning into gasping sobs. “What happened?” he pressed.

“I’m **_forbidden_** from telling anyone,” she hiccupped, trying to fold in on herself, wishing that she was alone in her room and that no one was witnessing her downfall. He didn’t say anything else. Instead, she felt herself being dragged across the bench-seat of the car, quickly becoming ensconced in an embrace. Whatever vestiges of control she had instantly slipped away, her body shaking as she melted into his chest, sucking in frantic breaths between cries.

“Tell me what you need,” Patrick breathed, rubbing soft circles into her back.

She exploded into a diatribe of anger and sorrow almost immediately. Telling him about the girl. About the abortion. About the stone faced doctor who performed the illegal act. About how she had felt sick the entire time. About how she didn’t understand why people couldn’t see her reasoning for helping with something so abhorrent. About how she had never thought of allowing an abortion until the battered girl had begged her for help. About how Sister Julienne had been anything but understanding on the issue. About how she wanted someone to understand. Wanted someone to say that even if it was something illegal, was something against God, that she had made the decision that was best for the young woman.

He didn’t interrupt her the entire time, sitting quietly as rain started to patter down on the windscreen, his hand never straying from the patterns it was painting on her back. Slowly, her sobs slowed, her body sagging against his as the weight of the last day finally overwhelmed her.

“What have I done?” she questioned, feeling sick. Doctor Turner moved his hand to her cheek then, turning her face up towards his, his thumb caressing her orbital bone and brushing some of the tears away.

“What you needed to do. You saved that woman from a lifetime of pain,” he replied. “You are so brave.” She looked up at him with watery eyes, biting her lip, feeling the temperature in the car change then. He was watching her carefully, his gaze moving from her eyes to her lips and back again. When she made no move to stop him, he leaned forward, kissing her gently, loving the feeling of her silken skin against his palm.

“Oh,” she whispered when he pulled away, feeling a blush spread across her cheeks as her heart pounded beneath her breasts. He gave her a bashful smile, ducking his head as he started the car, pulling out into the street as he started their trek back to Nonnatus. They didn’t speak again throughout the drive, both looking out the windscreen as the rain blurred their vision. She gathered her things when he pulled up outside the convent, her heart racing as she reached for the door.

“If we were anywhere else, I would kiss you again,” he said, voice so quiet she barely heard it.

“There’s always tomorrow,” she retorted, feeling dizzy at the notion of such contact, grinning at him as she slipped from the car and ran up the front steps. She pressed her hand over her heart when she was safely inside the building, feeling lighter and heavier all at the same time. She had crossed more boundaries in the last two days than she ever had in her life and yet, she felt as if she was finally coming to understand herself. And what she wanted.

“Everything go all right?” Sister Evangelina asked, appearing in the doorway of the parlour, a cup of tea in her hand. Sister Bernadette just nodded, not sure what would come out of her mouth if she tried to speak. The older woman smiled, watching the younger head for the clinical room, catching her on the shoulder as she passed. “You’re a stupid girl,” Sister Evangelina commented, keeping her voice low in the quiet of the convent. Sister Bernadette looked up at her, shocked. “I know it was hard. And it will be for a while yet. But you made the right decision.” With that she took swept up the stairs, leaving the woman in stunned silence, her mind swimming at the thought that not everyone thought her actions were as abhorrent as she initially expected.

As she went about cleaning her things, all she could feel was the lips of the doctor upon her own, her heart beating a tattoo in her chest, wondering if he would heed her words about what the next day could bring.


	9. Chapter 9

The knock on her door sounds in the resonating darkness, bringing her sleep to an abrupt end, her heart pounding in her chest as she stood, blinding gathering her robe before pulling the door open. She was off the duty roster, her diagnosis confining her to her bed until she could be swept off to the sanatorium on Friday morning. She wasn’t sure, really, whether it was still Wednesday night, or rather early Thursday morning, her clock skewed by the emotional and physical exhaustion she was battling against. It seems never ending. She squints, not seeing anything other than blurry shapes for a moment until the woman in the hall speaks.

“I’m so sorry to trouble you Sister, but I don’t know what to do,” Jenny Lee’s voice says, panic lacing every word.

“What is it?” she replies, motioning for the girl to enter her chamber while she stumbles unseeing to the bedside table, locating her glasses. She forgets that her hair is down, pulled into a messy plait, her sickness dulling her desire for propriety. The words from the London still spin in her mind, a dizzying circle that encompasses most of her thoughts. The few that are not about her illness are focused on the confusion her heart has been in for months – the desire to run from her vows and into the arms of the local GP. She shrugs off as much of the inner turmoil that she can, her attention wavering still even as she regards Jenny through now clear eyes.

“It’s Doctor Turner,” Jenny says, shifting from one foot to the other. “He’s here.” Sister Bernadette raises an eyebrow, trying to ignore how her heart picks up at his name, her chest feeling tight all of a sudden. From love or from rampant tuberculosis, she’s still not sure, but she doesn’t have time to question it as Jenny splutters out two additional words. **_“He’s drunk.”_**

“What?” She can’t help but keep the shock from her voice. In the decade she had known the man, she had never seen him intoxicated. Very rarely she had seen him take a drink, usually when a family insisted on him joining in their celebrations, but he had never been intoxicated around her.

“He’s down in the parlour. He keeps asking for you,” Jenny continued, looking around nervously, her fingers tangling in the hem of her sleeve.

“Me?” She wondered why she couldn’t get more than a word or two out at a time, her lungs struggling to expand at the thought that the doctor wanted anything more to do with her. Yes, he had insisted on driving her to the hospital the previous day. (Or was it still today?). Yes, he had assured her that he would be the one to drive her to St. Anne’s. Yes, he had sat with her to hear the formal diagnosis and accompanying prognosis in the pulmonologist’s office. But to show up here, at Nonnatus, now, threw her for a loop. Jenny nodded, seeming to want nothing more than to dodge from the room.

“Yes, Sister. I’m sorry, I’m worried he may tear the parlour apart if I don’t come back with you soon,” Jenny hastily explains, motioning for Sister Bernadette to follow her back downstairs. The nun deftly allows herself to fall into step behind the young nurse, her mind spinning as they descend the stairs.

She hears him before she sees him, words slurring as he rambles senselessly in the parlour. Peeking around the corner she can tell that he’s intoxicated, his gross motor skills failing him, arms swinging about while he talks to the empty air. She wonders briefly about how succinct his fine motor control is before Jenny announces their presence, her voice carrying softly through the room.

“Doctor Turner, I found Sister Bernadette,” she calls, staying in the doorway while the other woman enters the room. He stops in his tirade, eyes falling on the tiny woman as a strange noise breaks free from the back of his throat. He stumbles towards her, nearly tripping over the sofa and Sister Monica Joan’s knitting bag before he reaches her.

“Please,” he begs, falling to his knees, his hands clinging to the hem of her nightdress where it peeks out beneath the heavy flannel of her robe. “Please, you have to be all right.” She blinks owlishly down at him, not knowing where this panic has come from. His eyes are glassy, rimmed in red as he inches slightly closer, fingers loosening only long enough for him to wrap his arms around her legs, burying his face in the fabric over her knees. She can feel his hot breath through the material, panting against her thigh, sending a blush to her cheeks without her consent.

“Doctor, please,” she whispers, trying to dislodge him as she casts a hasty look over to Jenny. The girl looks stunned and worried all at the same time, hesitating in the doorway, unsure what her role is in this situation. It was evident that the nun was out of her depth in that moment, but Jenny had no idea how to help.

“You can’t leave me.” Doctor Turner’s voice breaks on the words, a sob escaping his chest and exploding in a rush of warmth against her skin, the words forced out of him. “Please, please don’t leave.” She manages to wriggle free, kneeling down next to him. He has curled himself into a ball, his back curved towards the ceiling and forehead pressed into the carpet, torso heaving with each shuddering breath. Tentatively, she reaches out, rubbing small circles on his shoulders. She’s vaguely aware of Jenny slipping away at the sound of the telephone, but she can’t draw her attention away from the man shattering before her.

“If... if I lose you,” he stammers, voice muffled against the carpet. She strains to hear him, leaning ever closer. “I won’t... I don’t know if I could live. To love you this much, and to lose you without ever telling you... I don’t even know your real name.” The words spill out in a mixture of gasps and hiccups, tainted with the smell of alcohol and the utter despair he is feeling. Her mind reels at the confession. He loves her.

 _He loves her_.

“To lose you with – without ever kissing you,” he looks up then, meeting her gaze, tears collecting on his lashes until they spill down his cheeks, catching in the lines on his face before continuing their trek to his chin. He has never looked more broken to her than in that moment.

She has never loved him more.

She doesn’t think of her actions, following pure instinct and nothing else as she leans forward, bringing her lips against his, her palm tiny against the expanse of his cheek as she holds them together, his tears bleeding into her skin; into the scar that he had pressed his own lips to a few weeks before. She isn’t really sure what she should do, moving her lips slightly against his until she feels him seize her around the waist, dragging her against him as his tongue invades her mouth. She feels lightheaded at the sensation, his tongue battling with hers in flicks and circles, his hand tangling in her hair. She can’t help but melt against him, her breasts pushing into his chest as she moves even half an inch closer, wanting nothing more than to stay there forever.

She pulls back when she realises her lungs are burning, her heart an earthquake beneath her ribs. She doesn’t know if it is from lack of oxygen or her illness. She can’t find it in herself to care.

“Sister,” he starts, voice thick.

“Its Shelagh,” she whispers, darting forward to place one more quick kiss on him, loving the little sigh she hears escape his throat. “Let’s get you upstairs. You’re in no fit state to go home to Timothy like this.”

It takes her a good ten minutes to heave him off the floor and escort him to one of the empty bedrooms, his gait stumbling every few paces, before she ends up depositing him on the bed in a heap. He watches her through half lidded eyes, grabbing her wrist when she tries to leave.

“Shelagh,” he breaths, rolling the vowels and consonants that make up her name over his tongue, tugging at her until she crouches down next to the bed, her face level with his. “I love you.”

She can’t stop the tears that fill her eyes at the words, his voice rough from crying and intoxication; a symphony of affection, fear and longing in her ears.

“I love you too,” she whispers, a weight disappearing from her at the admission.

“Promise me you’ll come back,” he croaks, clinging to her like she may disappear. She knows she shouldn’t promise something like that – something she has no real control over. And yet she finds the words slipping from her lips unbidden.

“I promise.” He tugs her in for one last kiss, eyes slipping closed as exhaustion overcomes him. As she stumbles to her feet and out into the hall she runs straight into Trixie, the young blonde looking at her with a Cheshire Cat grin.

“And you have the audacity to speak about ungentlemanly conduct. Speak about un-nun-ly conduct Sister Bernadette,” she says, looking scandalised. Sister Bernadette immediately wants to explain herself, to beg Trixie not to speak of what she had evidently witnessed, but the girl beats her to any sort of rushed justification. “I’m so jealous,” Trixie moans, shoulders sagging in mock defeat as she wanders down the hall to her own room.

He doesn’t remember her name months later when he finds her on the road, reintroducing themselves to one another, but he does remember that they kissed. He whispers it into her ear while guiding her back to his car, his hand on the small of her back, a grin filling his cheeks. As he opens the boot to store her bag he drags her into a quick peck, his hand clinging tightly to her hip, out of the eyes of Timothy.

She figures out in that moment that it wasn’t the illness that made her heart pound and her lungs seize, but rather the feeling of touching the man she loves.  


	10. Chapter 10

She had lost three patients in a week, none of them her fault, when he found her crumpled outside the chapel during his quest for Sister Evangelina. Her face was buried in her hands, her glasses discarded by her hip as tears slipped through the cracks between her fingers. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but he didn’t have the right words. He had none of her faith and conviction; none of her belief that God had a plan and that everything happened for a reason. At a loss, he sat down next to her, letting their shoulders brush, trying to let her know that she wasn’t alone. He wanted to ask her why she was in the corridor and not in the chapel only a few feet away, but the words died on his tongue at the realisation that her legs had probably given out in her grief.

As they sat there he came to the conclusion that even though he had known the woman next to him for nearly a decade, he had never seen her cry before that moment. She seemed to break at his presence, grabbing blindly until she found his hand, clinging to his fingers as if he was the only thing tethering her to the ground.

“What do you need?” he whispered, pivoting slightly, trying not to jolt when she nearly collapsed into him, never letting go of his hand. She didn’t answer; her face tucked against his jumper as she sobbed, unable to remain stoic any longer in her internal agony. He rubbed her back with his free hand, trying, and succeeding, to calm her.

“I’m sorry,” Sister Bernadette sniffed as she pulled away, scrubbing at red eyes with her hand.

“Shh, you’ve no reason to apologise,” he rushed, smiling gently at her. He could see the walls of propriety and embarrassment resurrecting around her; guilt on her face at her emotional dissolution in front of the doctor.

“Please, I shouldn’t –” she tried.

“No, I’ll not hear of it,” he interjected, noting the light blush that coloured her cheeks at his firm tone.

“All right,” she conceded, voice soft in the empty hallway as she wiped her eyes on her sleeve, picking up her glasses ad reaffixing them on her nose. He so desperately wanted to make her smile – to erase the sorrow that still infused every soft line on her face, gathering in the dark circles beneath her eyes and the downturned curve of her lips.

“I’m going to a lecture about using art to work with patients who are mentally ill tonight,” he blurted suddenly. She regarded him with a look of confusion, unsure what he meant. Patrick instantly wanted to smack himself, of all the things he could have said to her in that moment, platitudes meant to balm the hurt she was feeling, words of affection to erase the horrors she had witnessed, to remove the guilt from her conscience. Instead, he had served up a pointless comment regarding work – offering her his ramblings on a silver platter as if they held any worth.

“That sounds... rather interesting, to be honest,” she whispered in reply, glancing up at him from under her lashes. His heart pounded beneath his breast, knowing that she had no idea how coquettish the action was, but unable to remove the vision from his mind.

“Would you like to come with me?” He stammered the words slightly, suddenly feeling like he was fourteen again, asking a girl to dance with him for the first time. In a way, he supposed he was. He had known his own mind regarding the petite woman for a while, but he never knew if he should voice it. If his affection and admiration for her would be met with open arms or a sealed fortress. She played every emotion she had close to her heart, never revealing too much, and yet he had seen a side of her now that he could never erase. The woman who was still scared, still haunted by things going wrong. She took his breath away.

“Oh... I wouldn’t want to impose, I’m sure all the doctors there wouldn’t be too keen on a woman attending, let alone... well, someone like me,” she spoke the words to the floor, jumping slightly when he placed his hand on her elbow.

“To hell with them. I would be honoured if you’d accompany me. I’ll even buy you dinner,” he rushed. The silence that enveloped them made his palms sweat. Suddenly, he felt as if he had said too much. Exposed too much of himself. More than she was ready for then. More than she ever might be ready for.

“All right,” Sister Bernadette finally said. “Just... let me go wash up and inform Sister Julienne that I am attending this lecture with you.” She managed to get herself up off the floor, albeit on temporarily wobbly legs, before she wandered off down the hall and up the stairs. Patrick let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, letting his eyes slip shut for a moment before he was startled by Sister Evangelina.

“Best get some tea with a bit of sugar into her with supper Doctor Turner. The poor girl has been a wreck these last few days,” Sister Evangelina commented, rounding the corner and staring down at him. He leapt to his feet, nodding deftly at the older woman who clapped him on the shoulder before retreating towards the clinical room. As he went to the front hall he realised he no longer remembered what he had wished to ask of Sister Evangelina, too caught up in his feelings for Sister Bernadette and her welfare.

Even though he had his car they elected to take the bus to the other side of town in order to get to the lecture. He made her a cup of tea before they sat down, keeping to the back of the auditorium. As much as he had initially been interested in the lecture, he found his attention wavering every few seconds, sneaking covert glances at the woman next to him. She looked so tiny and demure in the sea of men with varying degrees of grey in their hair above their blazers and lab coats. He watched how her eyes tracked the movement of the speaker, her mouth quirking up occasionally when the man made a decent quip, frowning when he said something she didn’t agree with. He had never seen anymore more beautiful.

She wouldn’t let him take her to a proper restaurant after, telling him it was frivolous to spend that kind of money. He wanted so badly to object, to tell her making her happy was worth every penny he had. Instead, he allowed her to direct him to a small shop selling fish and chips, smiling shyly at him as they sat on a bench in the cool autumn air to enjoy their supper. He tried to hide the grin that forced its way onto his face at the contented little noises she made while she ate, attesting to the fact it had been quite a while since she had indulged in such a meal. She made idle chatter about the presentation, about Sister Monica Joan and if she might be a good resource to assist with including arts and crafts with struggling mothers as the elderly woman so desperately wanted to be needed. As she talked he swore he could feel his love for her grow, wanting nothing more than to listen to her talk all night and into the small hours of the morning.

When she made a noise in the back of her throat as she noticed the time, he knew that his wish wouldn’t be granted. She laughed softly at him when he rolled  his eyes as they walked back to the bus stop, his comment about ten o’clock not being that late, especially when they’re both out at all hours for deliveries, being more accurate than she wanted to acknowledge. They ended up sitting on the top floor of the bus, huddled in the back corner, Patrick taking off his jacket when he noticed her shiver and draping it over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she whispered as the bus rattled along the road, occasional beams of light from the street lamps casting shadows in through the windows.

“For what?” he queried, turning so that he was facing her, watching the latest strip of illumination pass over her features, her eyes flashing blue and silver.

“For bringing me to that lecture. For dinner. For... for making me feel better,” Sister Bernadette responded, glancing up at him. He couldn’t help himself, reaching up until he caught her jaw in his palm, stroking a thumb over her cheekbone.

“Anything. Always,” Patrick said. He felt his pulse speed up at the way she looked at him, her eyes locked with his, electricity crackling around them in the dark as he leaned closer, his hand landing on her thigh, just above her knee. He saw her eyes flutter closed, a blush spreading across her cheeks just before he touched his lips to hers. When she didn’t pull away he moved his mouth softly against hers, ignoring the fact that their stop was next, that they were in **_public_** , that they would be causing a huge scandal, should anyone notice. He didn’t care, feeling more complete than he had in ages as they kissed. He felt her fingers find his on her leg, twining their digits together until they had to pull away from each other, both panting in the darkness as the driver called out their stop.

They rushed down the stairs, giggling like children and out onto the streets of Poplar, the night air now cold, Sister Bernadette curling herself tighter into Patrick’s coat as he led her back towards Nonnatus. They didn’t speak on the short journey, content to walk close enough that their shoulders brushed, their fingers occasionally catching in the darkness as they passed through patches of shadow. When they stopped in front of Nonnatus, the convent looming in the moonlight, he felt his heart pound, looking down at the woman in front of him.

“I don’t want you to go in there,” he confessed, the words falling from his mouth without his permission. “I want to steal you away instead.” The smile that covered her face nearly killed him, his heart swelling at the sight.

“Then I think we’ll have to make a break for it before Sister Monica Joan sees us – she’ll report you to the constable if she sees you kidnapping me. Even if it is a welcome abduction,” she replied, a teasing note in her voice. He smirked, scooping her up off the ground and running away in the direction they had come, her laugher echoing off the bricks.


	11. Chapter 11

She noticed a strange energy about him as they left the hospital. It was clear that he was pleased with the progress they had made in an attempt to get the mass x-ray screening brought to Poplar, but there was something else fluttering just beneath his skin, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something about the tension in his hands as they climbed back into the car, his fingers clenched white against the wheel once he turned over the ignition. She knew it was partly her fault, her dismissive nature at his familiar tone, the way he leaned towards her, telling her what a good job she had done. She had pulled away, terrified. There had been people mulling about, making her heart thunder like a herd of spooked elephants at the thought of anyone seeing the way he conducted himself around her. The way she so desperately wanted to answer his words, his actions. The kiss he had placed on her hand a week earlier still fresh in her mind. If she thought too much about it, she imagined that she could still feel the way his lips had touched her palm, so soft and delicate in the tiny amount of time that they pressed to her skin. Such a fleeting moment until she had frantically taken her hand away, turning her back on him, chest tight and vision swimming from sensation.

She sighed, closing her eyes against the oppressive feeling that engulfed the car, leaning her head against the back of the seat, content to rest her eyes until they were back at Nonnatus, where she could escape to the safety of the convent, away from the awkward energy that encompassed them. She knew he hadn’t been expecting her that morning when she took Sister Julienne’s place. Knew that he had taken a moment to struggle through whatever he wanted to say, the pain and worry clear in his eyes, his mouth sealed shut at her dismissive nature on the drive over. They had both opened up during the meeting, aligned in their desire to make Poplar safer, to eradicate or at least deal with the rampant tuberculosis that wandered the streets of the East end. He had seemed so excited at the progress they made, the smile splitting his face as they stood in the corridor, setting something inside her alight until she had retreated, feeling the overwhelming need to stop the conversation. She yawned softly, trying not to grimace at the feeling of tightness that encompassed her lungs, dragging her emotions down into a pit of despair that she was unsure she could ever crawl out of. Instead, she let herself doze off, head lulling against the window as the car moved quietly down the road.

He watched her from the corner of his gaze, noticing when she fell asleep only a few minutes into the journey. He contemplated his actions for a moment before swerving around a corner as carefully as he could, heading for the motorway. Ever since that day in the kitchen at the parish hall he had been torn between regretting his actions because they were too forwards, and regretting them for that tiny moment of contact had not been enough. If it had been the only time he was ever going to get to touch her, to show her intimacy, he wished he had kissed her properly instead of on her palm. Her dismissive nature had irritated him, and yet he understood. She had told him she turned away because of her vows, and he believed her, but his own mind did not want to accept it. Did not want her to go through her life thinking that it was nothing more than wanting attention that had pushed him to touching her in such a way. He had struggled every moment since then, wondering how to tell her. How to make her understand that his feelings weren’t fleeting. That he had wanted her for months, would want her forever, even if she broke his heart and told him they could never be. Yes, she had said as much in her actions, but he was a man of science and hard facts, not faith and ambiguity. He needed her to say the exact words. To tell him that she didn’t, could not, and never would, want him.

He followed the A23 out of the city, following the road as far as he could, only stopping once he reached Brighton. She slept the entire way, her breathing even despite the anguish and confusion that were raging within him, making his skin itch and nausea rise in his throat. When the pavement of the road ended he kept going, stopping the car once it was on the sand, the _**ocean** _ stretching out before them in the dimming sunlight. She stirred then at the lack of movement, tired eyes blinking open, confusion etched on her face.

“Doctor?” she asked, watching as he turned off the car, getting out and immediately starting to walk across the sand, towards the ocean. He dropped his jacket, flopping down heavily onto it after a moment only to remove his shoes and socks, rolling the hem of his trousers to his knees and the cuffs of his shirt to his elbows, resuming his trek to the ebbing tide as soon as he was standing. He scrunched his toes against the grit beneath his feet, letting the water lap over him, not stopping until he was standing in the waves, the push and pull slapping against his calves, splashing the rolled up edges of his trousers. He couldn’t find it in himself to care, letting his head fall back as he absorbed the last bit of warm sun, the water etched with pink and gold among the surf.

She stepped out of the car, waiting by the bonnet, just watching him for a few moments. The fight seemed to have drained out of him the minute he hit the waves, his shoulders sagging. She wasn’t sure of what to do. She had no idea why they had come to the edge of England, away from Poplar, from London, to the shore as the sun set. Instead of voicing her questions in the manner she desired, full of confusion, anger, and demanding answers, she removed her shoes and stockings, padding across the sand until she could slip into the water next to him, standing at his side without speaking.

“I don’t deserve to live,” he said, voice nearly drowned out by the waves. He didn’t bother to open his eyes to look at her, didn’t even turn his head in her direction.

“Do not say that. What on earth –” she couldn’t finish, her words catching in her throat as he snapped his gaze on her, pupils dilated in the ever dimming light. He took a moment to reply, too focused on the way that the sun caught on her lashes, casting little shadows on her cheeks.

“I cannot accept it. I cannot accept loving you and not being able to tell you. I cannot accept the thought that I will never be able to hold your hand. To kiss you. To hold you as you fall to sleep at night. I cannot accept your vows the way you want me to, so I don’t deserve anything other than to stand here and be swallowed up by the ocean,” he rushed, voice coming out thick in the silence of the deserted beach, each syllable flowing like the waves at their feet. She couldn’t stop herself as she reached out, grabbing his hand in her own, pulling it to her chest until she held it against her sternum.

“You deserve everything,” she breathed, feeling the air in her lungs hitch at the admission, her heart pounding in her ears. The look he gave her in reply was full of heartbreak, misery etched in the lines on his face.

“I don’t want everything,” he said quietly, despondent. “All I want is you.”

She knew she shouldn’t. Knew it was going against every vow she had made to the church, to God, but she couldn’t stop herself. She lurched towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she pulled him down, pressing their lips together. The minute they touched she felt as if she were finally complete, a soft whimper escaping her throat as she felt his hands go to her waist, pulling her to him, ducking his head so he could kiss her properly, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She melted, body sagging against his at the sensation, every atom of her being alight with the dying embers of the sun.

“I love you,” she gasped when they broke apart, her eyes widening at the admission, having kept it locked inside herself so long she had no idea what it would sound or feel like to say the words. The beaming smile he replied with made her heart soar, her scream of laughter echoing around them as he lifted her, spinning her in a circle, the saltwater spraying about their feet. He kissed her again when he put her down, grabbing her hand to raise it to his lips, pressing against the now healed wound on her palm. They stayed like that for an insurmountable amount of time, listening to the breeze blowing across the waves.

“It’s late. We should get back,” he commented, resignation in his voice when he saw the sun finally slip below the horizon, darkness enveloping them.

“Or we could stay,” she whispered, tangling their fingers together as he reluctantly led her from the surf, the breeze ruffling is hair and sending it into his eyes. He looked down at her, seeing the cheeky grin about her lips at the suggestion she offered. His answer was to pull her to the ground atop his coat and kiss her again.


	12. Chapter 12

"Have you ever been to Paris?" he questions, trying to dissuade her from the exam he knows she is intent on carrying out, letting her smaller frame shove him down onto the waiting chair. She raises an eyebrow slightly, unsure of why he is suddenly interested in her previous travel, or rather lack thereof.

"Doctor Turner, you've just been struck in the face, Paris is the least of my concerns," she mutters, regarding him with a look of confusion. He had been telling a patient that his wife showed signs of a sexually transmitted infection when the man and reared back and punched him in the face, sending him sprawling to the floor of the clinic, pain blooming in his cheek and around his eye. His vision went spotty and the sudden attack, his mind struggling to comprehend how he had been standing one moment and was then on the floor. The man had stormed out of the room immediately after, leaving the shocked doctor and equally stunned nun to process what had occurred. By the time Patrick got to his feet, Sister Bernadette had recovered, her medical training kicking in. He was vaguely glad that there had been no one else in the room to witness the attack while, at the same time, his heart constricted at the sight of worry on the woman's face.

"I've always wanted to go. To Paris I mean. Never seemed to find the time. Seems kind of pointless to go alone now and Timothy is still too young to appreciate the art or history of the city," he rambles, trying to ignore the throbbing in his face.

"I'm sure you'll get there eventually," Sister Bernadette says, voice placating as she gingerly starts pressing her fingers along where a bruise is already blossoming, the red and purple fanning around his eye. He tries to decipher the hint of sadness he hears in her voice, a longing for travel and adventure he is sure runs just beneath her skin, bound with the vow of poverty and a sense of propriety. He wonders if he could ask her to go with him to Paris, even if it were just as friends, but he knows she would never be allowed – Sister Julienne would surely see through his poorly masked attempts at friendship that harboured so much love underneath. He thinks Sister Bernadette would look beautiful walking along the Seine or stroking the carvings on the Arc de Triomphe, blue eyes wide in wonder at the architecture.

He hisses suddenly, jerking his neck so that she's no longer touching him, trying to escape the surge of pain he feels from his injury, her fingers hanging deftly in the space of air that his cheek had occupied a moment earlier.

"Oh come now," she chastises, grabbing his chin with her left hand and wrenching his face back towards her, holding him steady as she palpates his orbital bone, checking for breaks. He winces, trying not to move again, noting the look of concentration on her face as she skims her fingers over his cheek and around his eye, gentle but hard at the same time, confident in her movements. He can't help but let his eyes slipped closed, her skin soft against the weathered flesh of his face, fingers delicate even as they press against a particularly tender spot.

"Ow," he grunts, unable to stop the slight twitch of his neck, trying to pull away from her seeking hands despite how he wants nothing more than to continue feeling her touch.

"Timothy didn't complain this much when I patched up his arm," she teases, voice close to his ear. He wants to open his eyes, to see how close she is to him. He can feel her breath ghosting across his cheek and ear, so he knows she is mere inches away, and yet, he cannot force himself to complete the action, absorbed in the spell she has cast over him. Not wanting to wake up from the dream he feels he is in, for he must be dreaming to have her touching him so intimately. Even if it is guarded with medical purpose.

"He had a graze," Patrick grouses, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. "I was assaulted."

"I'm sure you've had worse," she counters, laugher hinted in her tone.

"When I was younger maybe." He sounds more bitter than he intends to, but he also knows had he been a few years younger he would have retaliated. Would have struck back at the man, even if it wasn't warranted. Being a father had tempered his actions, made him think more clearly about how he was perceived by others simply because he wanted to set a better example for his son than his own father had created for him. He feels the chuckle she lets out, puffing against his neck.

"You'll survive," she teases. "Nothing is broken, but you're going to want to put some ice on that and take a few aspirin to keep the swelling down. And I'm afraid you might look like a prize fighter for the next week or so, you're already bruising quiet badly." The second half of the statement is said softly, compassion and concern laced together in her voice.

"Is that what you told Timothy as well?" He isn't sure why he says the words, reacting purely on the fact that he suddenly feels nervous around her, the silence unsettling. He blinks, raising his gaze to hers as she rolls her eyes from behind her glasses.

"Well, I replaced the aspirin in his treatment with a kiss to make things better," she says offhandedly, blushing when she notices the way he is watching her. He can see the pulse in her neck jump as heat crawls up her face, her breathing changing to something more laboured than it was before. He doesn't say anything, but rather watches her, noting how she seems to fight with herself before the next words spring from her lips, unbidden. "Is that what you would prefer then Doctor? A kiss to make it better?"

"And if I say I would?" he replies, trying to keep his own heart beat in check, his palms sweating all of a sudden where they rest against the thick wool of his trousers. He can feel the energy around them shift, the air suddenly thick with electricity, her eyes changing to a shade of blue he has never seen on her before. Her lids soon slip to half mast as she leans forward, pressing her lips gently to his cheek bone, just beneath his eye, exactly where the punch had landed. All he can feel is the soft way she kisses his cheek, her lips barely brushing the skin, careful of his injury.

"Is that better?" she queries, pulling back only just, still closer than he is used to having her. He can't help himself, his hand coming up to grab her chin, mirroring the way she anchored him earlier as he surges upwards, connecting their mouths in a proper kiss, moving gently against her until he feels her respond. Suddenly they are battling against one another, all tongue and teeth as he tugs her into his lap, hands falling to her waist while hers tangle in his hair. How long they stay that way, neither is certain, until she accidentally passes her palm over the bruise, making him pull back with a hiss.

"Sorry," he apologises, trying to lean in for another kiss, only to have her flail backwards, nearly falling on her backside in her haste to get away. Her entire face is red in embarrassment, her mouth opening and closing a few times, words desperate to escape but unsure of the pattern they should fall into.

"It's fine. I'm sorry Doctor, I should... um, I should go. Remember to put some ice on that." The words are flung over her shoulder as she scrambles out of the parish hall, the door smashing open and closed in her wake. Grimacing, he sits back, his own fingers touching the sore spots on his face, not nearly as careful and gentle as her touch had been.

As he wanders into the kitchen to find some aspirin until he can get home and attain some ice, he wonders if he can persuade her into doing a follow-up in a few days.


	13. Chapter 13

She hears the car before she sees it; the fog so thick that it takes her a moment to realise what is happening. The minute she makes out the familiar form of the motorcar, the license plate she has seen a hundred times gleaming in the damp air, her heart starts pounding. When the vehicle stops she has little choice but to set her things down on the pavement, her limbs feeling weak from the emotions swirling through her at the sight of the man behind the wheel, his eyes never leaving hers as he puts the car into park, flinging the door open and getting out.

She has imagined seeing him again a thousand times; the time spent in the sanatorium a blur of days filled with self loathing, then questioning, reproach, and acceptance. Every turn of her mind bringing her gaze back to him, back to this unquenchable desire to have him as her own. In the early days she had tried to suppress it, to convince herself that she didn't long for the strong, calloused fingers on the doctor on her hand, her arm, her collarbone. The fleeting touches from a decade pooled together and extrapolated to how gingerly he had run his stethoscope over her chest and back on the day that sealed her fate and banishment. Not from London, but from who she had been before. From the woman who did not know what she wanted and spent her days curled in a whirlwind of despair and confusion.

When she first allowed herself to dream, in those days before her diagnosis, she had imagined his hands more than anything. The tender way he had cupped her injured palm had sparked something within her, the electricity around them undeniable. The way he had so gingerly felt around the cut before raising her hand to his lips. She had turned, horrified, not at his action, but at the dizzying sensations that spun within her at the contact. Her heart palpating to an untameable rhythm within her chest, lungs seizing, an overwhelming desire to throw herself into his arms from the mere moment of touch. She had let him leave, desperate not to cry out to him, to beg him to come back, to ignore every word she had said in her fear of her own emotions. When she went to bed that night she clutched her hand to her heart, imagining that she could still feel the way he was touching her palm until she fell into a fitful sleep.

When her banishment commenced a mere few weeks later, she vowed not to think of him. Standing in the window of the room she was assigned, an hour after having arrived, she gave up that hope, glancing out the panes of glass to see that he was still standing in the drive, leaning against the car, hands at his sides. She wondered if he was as torn as she – fearing what the coming days, weeks, and months would bring. Fearing that the ride to St. Anne’s had been the last contact they would ever have. That the few words they shared in the drive were the last they would recall from one another, as both had been silent the entire drive from Poplar.

She closed the curtains, turning away from the window before she collapsed in tears onto the mattress, trying desperately not to think of the sadness she could see on his face, even from so far away. She fell asleep like that, curled on the bed in her clothes until one of the nurses came to rouse her for dinner, encouraging her to get into her nightgown so that she could rest properly. When the woman left, she hesitantly glanced around the edge of the curtain. Part of her had been glad he was gone – that he had returned home to his son, to Poplar, to the people that needed him. Part of her wished he had still been there so that she could have run to him and tell him that she needed him. That she wanted him. Instead, she pushed her thoughts and dreams of him away, determined to get better and return to the life she had vowed to live.

Her resolve had lasted all of a week until the first letter came. She had taken one look at the return address before feeling dizzy with emotion at his scrawled penmanship, legible but only just. Her only response had been to tuck it away, hide it from sight, convince herself that she wasn’t desperate to read it – to know what he had written her. To see his words if she could not hear them. She slipped it into her bible, throwing both in the drawer of her bedside table, closing her eyes against everything for the rest of the day, trying to devote herself to meditation and silent prayer. When she woke up crying in the middle of the night, she blindly grabbed for the letter, hating how much comfort it gave her to clutch it to her chest, turning herself onto her side and clinging to the paper as if it were the only thing keeping her alive. She imagined what it would feel like to have his body curled around hers that night. To have his arms wrapped about her torso, his chest pressed against her back, keeping her grounded and safe.

She went back to imagining that every time she struggled. When she felt ill from the medications she was forced to take to rid her lungs of infection. On the day when she spiked a fever so high the doctors worried and she felt as if she would slip into oblivion, her mind straying back to his face, so close to hers that day in the kitchen when he asked what the clinic needed before Timothy came in. Back to the birth they had attended together, both of them crouching between the mother’s legs when the baby refused to budge, his breath a staccato on her neck, his body warm against her shoulder as they freed the infant. To the day when he had confirmed her diagnosis, callused fingers carefully skimming over her collarbones, her shoulder blades, her sternum as he took in the sound of her heart and her breathing.

The majority of his litters went unopened, building up in her drawer, hidden among her few meagre possessions. She couldn’t bring herself to read the words, fearing that she would run back to Poplar should he tell her he held any regard for her beyond friendship. His actions had said as much, his countenance as he had driven her to the sanatorium one of someone grieving the loss of a loved one, but he had never voiced the words. To see them, to hear them, would be too much for her tired soul to bear.

  
When he sent a postcard, an intricate rose on the front, she couldn’t avoid his words any longer, but she was confused at them, for they were not in English. In his neatest writing he had crafted the letters on the back, the words foreign and yet sparking something deep within her.

‘Mi manchi, il mio tesoro. Non posso respirare senza di te. Per sempre tuo, PT.’

She hadn’t learned what the words meant until she had come to her decision – that she would leave the church and hope he felt the same way for her that she did for him. Nurse Peters had smiled indulgently at the postcard, holding it up as she read the words.

“Oh _**Italian**_. Such a beautiful language,” the woman sighed. “You have quite the admirer.”

“You can read it?” Shelagh asked, her curiosity spiking dangerously as she had sat up straigher in bed, leaning towards the woman.

“Of course. I had an Italian chap once. Completely scandelous, I assure you, but he did teach me quite a bit. You’ll have to forgive me if I get this wrong but I believe it says ‘I miss you my treasure. I cannot breath without you. Forever yours, PT.’ Quite sussinct but beautiful at the same time.”

She had melted at the words, accepting the postcard back from the nurse as she traced over each of the letters, feeling as if she hadn’t been mistaken the entire time as she pulled out the rest of his missives, reading each one over and over until she had them all memorised, finally able to read between the lines; to see the true meaning of the words he had been writing in hopes of her realising how he felt.

Now she didn’t know what to say. To see him after thinking of him every day. To know that he was only a few feet away from her. Every word he had written spun in her head, making her heart light as she saw him take a step towards her. Every cell of her body sparking as he took another, getting closer and closer to her. Without thinking of it, she started to run. Ignoring the burning in her lungs at the exhertion. Ignoring the sense of propriety that she had promised herself to keep when she first saw him. Ignoring the reality that she was still bound to the church until she could get back to Nonnatus and banish her old life, the name she had chosen, until she was simply Shelagh once again.  
She vaguely head the sound of her shoes hitting the pavement, felt the muggy, fog-filled air swarming around her, but she was completely focused on sprinting herself the last few meters towards the man in front of her.

The second she was close enough, she threw her arms around his neck, standing on her tiptoes until she could press her lips to his, eyes slipping shut at the first taste of what a kiss felt like. She heard the surprised noise that escaped the back of his throat before he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her tightly to him and lifting her from the ground until she was completely at his mercy, her hands tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

She had never imagined kissing him before then. Had nothing to base the sensation off, save for the distant memory of kisses on cheeks from her parents and cousins when she was little, but nothing since then. She had always thought about what it would be like to have him hold her, but the sensation was so much better. The broad expanse of his chest, his strength-filled arms, the scent of his skin. It overwhelmed her until she felt tears pricking at the corner of her eyes even as they continued to kiss softly as he lowered her back to the pavement, curling his back so that she wasn’t straining her neck. He pecked kisses against her lips even after they broke apart, lungs screaming for oxygen, but unable to be separated from one another for a moment longer.

“Ti amo,” he whispered into her hair, holding her tight, revelling in the feeling of finally being able to touch her. He wasn’t sure if she would know what he said, but he couldn’t help himself, needing to let the words fly free into the open air of the English countryside before they burned him from the inside out.

“I love you too,” she replied, resting her ear over his pounding heart.  
  



	14. Chapter 14

He can’t move from his spot on the driveway as he watches her walk into the sanatorium, his entire being fighting against the invisible bonds that keep him from chasing after her. His stomach turns, trying to revolt at how much it pains him to not be going in there with her. She looks so tiny against the massive building; the oppressive grey of the sky dwarfing her blue clad figure until she looks nothing more than a smudge of paint across a canvas, so stark in contrast but so pivotal in the grand image. Because that’s what she is to him – more important in her tiny countenance than anything else in the mural that is their lives. He lets his thighs rest against the bonnet of the car when he feels his legs may give out, the metal, still warm from the engine, keeping him from collapsing to the gravel drive beneath his feet.

He distantly hears the front door of the sanatorium banging shut, enveloping her into the foyer and shutting her away from his gaze. It takes every ounce of strength he still has to keep from running to the door, from yanking it open to scoop her into his arms and carry her off like a barbarian. He’s a doctor, he can take care of her. Can give her the medicine she needs in order to get better. His regard for her, his _love_ for her, can help her heal. Can remove the toxic bacteria from her lungs until she is healthy. Until she can be completely his. He can feel his fingers twitching at his side, compulsively grasping and releasing the material of his coat before he forces himself to round the side of the car and get into the driver’s seat once again, casting one more forlorn look at the monolith of a building before he revs the engine and pulls back onto the road.

He had fought against loving her for months before that fateful day in the kitchen when he couldn’t contain his affection any longer, kissing her hand and breaking his own heart in the process when she pulled away. He had hoped that her confession of devotion to God did not mean that she did not care for him, but that she could not show it. But since then he had felt her withdraw, acting so careful in every step she took around him, terrified, it would seem, that he would press for something more. And he wanted to, oh how he desperately had wanted to pull her into his arms when he had to deliver the news of her condition, the sound of the crackles in her lungs tearing him apart from the inside out. Even though he knew he needed to be in a right state when he drove her to the hospital the next morning he had succumb to drinking more scotch than he should have, manically trying to quell the fear in his chest.

He can’t help it, nearly choking on his own breath as he pulls over to the side of the road, throwing the car into park as his lungs seize, a sob ripping out of him unbidden. He can feel himself struggling to breathe, trying to draw air into himself that his body rejects, too heartbroken to comprehend the needs of his physiology in that moment. His vision swims as he grabs the wheel with one hand, the other straying to the material of his shirt, clinging to it, trying to remind himself to inhale and exhale as the tears keep coming, refusing to stop.

He remembers the first time he saw her, nearly a decade before, all righteous indignation and venom towards a man who had been abusing his wife. She had looked so young then, barely old enough to be a nurse, not yet wearing glasses, having convinced herself that she didn’t need them quite yet. He had to step between her and the man to calm the situation, not sure whether it would be the burly drunkard that would win in the subsequent fight, or the tiny woman wearing a habit and throwing curses at the man in a Scottish accent so thick he struggled to understand her. Had he not been married, he would have fallen for her instantly in that moment. On nights when he is truthful with himself, sequestered in the darkness of his bed, he admits that part of him did fall in love with her on that cool September evening.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he is pushing the car back into gear, yanking it onto the road and turning about, heading back to the sanatorium at breakneck speed. He doesn’t bother to question himself or his actions, too driven with the need to leave things differently than he did. He can’t think that their last conversation could be so stilted; knowing it might be weeks if not months before he sees her again. Part of him worries that it will be never. That something may happen to her. Or that she may reject him for all he is worth and flee once she is well, but he cannot stop himself now, too intent on what he has decided needs to be done.

He’s out of the car and up the path to the entrance of the building before he takes stock of the area around him, breathless as he gives her name to the receptionist who reluctantly tells him where to go. As he climbs the stairs he ruefully tries to scrub the tear tracks from his face, his sleeve a poor substitute for a handkerchief but all that he can manage in the moment, his shoes echoing on the hardwood beneath his feet.

 ** _Third door on the right_** _, third door on the right, third door on the right_.

The words bounce in his head with every step, his palms sweating as he reached the correct door, finding it open. She was standing at the end of the bed, an unreadable expression on her face as she looked down at the material of her nightgown, regarding it with a level of hatred. He didn’t bother to knock, instead stepping directly into the room and pulling the door shut behind him, his back resting briefly on the wood as her startled gaze flew to his face.

“Doctor Turner, I thought –” she starts. He can hear the alarm in her voice at his presence, but also the sorrow that has laced through every word she has spoken since he had showed her that damned x-ray. She doesn’t know why he’s here. Why he has come back. Why he is standing in her room, a desperate look on his face, the oak wood heavy where it presses into his shoulder blades.

“I can’t,” he says, voice cracking as he crosses the room, coming to stand directly in front of her, his body looming over hers as she turns her chin upwards, meeting his eyes.

“Can’t what?” she questions, swallowing thickly, a movement he can see even beneath the fabric of her smock and wimple. He can see the tiny bit of sweat that dots her brow just below the white fabric he’s so close, her eyes wide as she searches his face for answers.

“I can’t leave you here. Not like this. Not without telling you,” he rushes, noting how her pupils dilate slightly, lids parting a fraction more as she processes the words, unsure of where they’re going. “I love you. And I know you will tell me you cannot love me back, or that I should not feel this way, but I do. I love you more than anything in this world, and the thought of not telling you was killing me. I will go now if you ask me to. Will never speak of this again. But I could not in all good conscience leave you here without you knowing how much you mean to me. It would kill me to know my last words to you were some daft platitudes that you do not need instead of... this.” He cannot help but swoop down on her then, pressing their lips together gently, afraid she will break beneath him.

He feels the breathless ‘Oh’ that escapes her as she leans into the kiss, tentative hands moving from her side to rest on his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath her palms. He knows that what they’re doing is forbidden; that it is pushing boundaries he isn’t sure if he wants to cross, let alone if it is something she wants to do, but when he feels the moan rumble out of her throat, her hands tight in the collar of his shirt, he cannot resist her. He manoeuvres them until they’re lying on the bed, side by side, her petite body curled into his as they exchange kiss after kiss, her fingers becoming bold as they push his overcoat off, slipping under the fabric of his blazer next, letting her hands curl around his back.

He stops her then, before she can go any further, noting how she is struggling to draw in a breath, her eyes glassy from exertion, arousal, and the low grade fever he knows is simmering just beneath her skin. If she asks him to continue, to go further, he will not be able to deny her, but he does not want her to do this simply to appease him. If when she is better she still wants this, wants him, he will be hers the second she is freed from the confines of this building. He presses one more kiss to her forehead, noticing how she is clinging to him, burying her face in his jumper as her breathing evens out, already slipping into the slumber he knows she desperately needs.

“I should go,” he whispers, stroking a finger across her cheek. She murmurs for him to stay, nudging at him until he drops his arm around her back, tugging her just a tiny bit closer into his chest. He sighs to himself, watching her drift to sleep in his arms. He cannot deny her anything.       


	15. Chapter 15

She refuses to listen to the diagnosis when it is given to her. Although, initially, she seemed to comprehend what was happening when he showed her the x-ray, the minute she returned from the London she slipped backwards. Refusing help, refusing the thought of medication, refusing the fact that she needed to be on bed rest and the triple treatment, preferably at a sanatorium where she would be forced to have the proper care given to her.

When Sister Julienne shows up at the surgery nearly two weeks after they had returned from the London, his worry skyrockets.

“She won’t listen to me,” the woman says, panic and anger laced in her voice. “I’m worried Doctor Turner. She’s getting worse. She has symptoms now, and yet she still won’t listen to me when I tell her she’s ill. Forget the vow of **_obedience_** , she just ignores every word that comes out of my mouth.” He has never seen the matron sister of Nonnatus at such a loss, her agitation palpable as he immediately gets to his feet, grabbing his coat from the rack that sits in the corner of his office and motioning for her to follow him.

The drive to Nonnatus is short, Patrick’s temper simmering just below the surface as concern gnaws a hole in his stomach, bile threatening to rise in his throat with each passing moment until he’s parked beneath the stone steps, following Sister Julienne into the building. Sister Evangelina is standing at the base of the stairs when they get in, wringing her hands compulsively as she takes over, Sister Julienne heading into her office, a prayer whispered beneath her breath with each step.

“How bad is it?” Patrick asks, unable to keep the question to himself, especially with the way everyone is acting.

“Very,” Sister Evangelina responds, grabbing his shoulder as he reaches for the handle on the door. “If you care for her even half as much as I suspect you do, you need to get her to St. Anne’s.” She leaves him then, a floundering fish on land, mouth slightly agape and heart hammering beneath his ribs. He manages to drag in a few pulls of oxygen before pushing the door open, his stomach immediately in his mouth.

She’s collapsed on her hands knees in the corner of the room, coughing profusely, one hand shakily trying to grip her ribs, trying to ease the ache that rattles through her with each exhale. She leaves her side a moment later, covering her mouth as the hacking gets worse, a tiny amount of blood escaping through her fingers, landing on the tiles beneath her.

“Please,” he begs, feeling sick with worry, his vision blurring at the edges as he goes to her side, kneeling next to her, a hand resting on her back, rubbing circles into her shoulders to try and slow the coughing. “Please, let me help you. Let me get you some medicine.” 

“I’m fine,” she chokes out, gasping. “This is my penance.” The words jar him. How can she thinks she deserves such a thing?

“You own no one, not even God, such payment as to sacrifice your life to this. Please, come with me, we can be to St. Anne’s by nightfall. You can start treatment today.” There are tears in the corners of her eyes, he notices, some already having streaked down her face as she moves her hand, letting him take her tiny palm in his own as he cleans the blood from her skin with a handkerchief.

“I don’t deserve it,” she whispers. He cannot control himself then, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look up at him. She’s startling pale in the dim light from the window, her eyes dull and ringed with dark circles.

“Of course you do,” he snaps, unable to keep his voice level. His emotions are swimming too close to the surface, struggling to break free into the silence of the room. She goes to contradict him but he stops her, leaning forward and pressing his lips to hers, ignoring the danger that the action holds, both emotionally and medically. The kiss is chaste, over before it even really began, but it has stunned her into silence, eyes wide as she tries to process it. He doesn’t wait for her to say anything, to ask questions, to demand answers. Instead, he stands, lifting her from the floor and darting down the stairs with her slight form pressed against his chest.

He passes Sister Julienne on the way, noting the expression that graces the older woman as he nearly races down the front steps, carefully putting Sister Bernadette into the front seat of his car, the shock still not having worn off. Sister Evangelina is behind him the moment he straightens up, passing him the younger woman’s coat and tossing a small suitcase into the back seat. She pats him on the shoulder as he rounds the bonnet of the car, throwing himself into the driver’s seat and turning over the engine as he speeds out of Poplar, intent on taking the young woman to the sanatorium even if she hates him for it.

They’re halfway there when she seems to regain her voice, coughing slightly before she manages to speak.

“You tricked me,” she says, indignation lacing each word. She pauses then, adding in a softer tone: “and you kissed me.”

“I love you,” he responds, justification for each action in three simple words. 


	16. Chapter 16

Shelagh isn’t sure what wakes her, torn between the source of her heart pounding in her chest being that of the loud thump from the opposite side of the room, the gust of cold wind, or the curse that echoes through the room.

“Shit,” a voice says, laughing slightly in the darkness. Clutching the bedclothes to her chest she scrambles at the bedside table first for her glasses, then for the lamp, clicking the light on and illuminating the tiny dormitory room in dim warmth. She feels her heart climb into her throat at the sight of a man, dusted with snow, strewn across the carpet, dark hair flopping into his face as he stares at the ceiling. She can’t help but recoil, backing up until she is pressed against the wall in the corner of the mattress. He glances over at her then, confusion on his face as he takes in the sight of the tiny woman cowering beneath a mountain of blankets, hair flecked with gold and copper in the light where it fans around her face. “Shit,” he says again, trying to sit up only to fall back on his elbows. “You’re not Harold.”

“What are you doing here?” she demands, voice half caught in her throat despite the demanding tone she is trying, and failing, to accomplish.

“All these buildings look alike,” he mutters in way of response. When he looks over at her again he notes that she seems to still be terrified of him, bedclothes up to her chin, and eyes wide. “I was trying to find the physician’s dormitories.” The elaboration doesn’t seem to quell her fears but he can tell she relaxes slightly when she realises he had not intentionally broken into her room.

“It’s just gone midnight,” Shelagh comments, unsure what else to say to the man, hearing the clock a few blocks away chime the hour through the still open window, a gust of snow blowing in and circling through the room, a few flakes landing on her books that are still open on the desk.

“Hence why I wasn’t using the door,” he replies in snarky tone, getting to his feet only to have the fight instantly drain out of him as he grabs for her desk chair, sitting down heavily on it.

“You’re drunk,” she adds, unsure why she keeps stating the obvious.

“Evidently,” he chuckles, raking his hair out of his face. He looks haggard in the contrasting lights of the lamp and the moon, eyes red rimmed and surrounded by dark circles, a sigh escaping his lips and deflating the strong definition of his shoulders beneath his coat. There’s something about him that makes her worry disappear as she grabs her dressing gown, swinging it around her body as she crosses the floor, trying not to shiver as she crouches down in front of him, a hand on his knee.

“Are you all right?” she questions, watching his glassy eyes struggle to focus on her face. He shrugs, trying to smile, the action not convincing in the least.

“They let me leave Birmingham so eventually I will be,” he says in reply, lids drooping slightly as exhaustion seems to wash over him. She knows she should banish him from the dormitory, push him back out the window and onto the street a few scant feet below; send him on his way in the dark January night and into the swirling snow that is accompanying the wee hours of twilight. Instead, she crosses the floor and shuts the window, tucking her fingers inside her dressing gown the moment she completes the action, knowing that the room is going to be chilled all night now, the old building constantly struggling to retain heat from the fireplaces. She doesn’t question her own logic or thinking as she heaves him from the chair, helping him stagger the few feet towards the bed.

“Come on, you need to get some sleep,” she whispers, depositing him on the edge of the mattress, bending down so that she can unlace his shoes. As he watches her careful movements he is overcome with how intimate the action is, her fingers caring in the way she slides the ties out of the laces and eases the worn leather from his feet, careful not to nudge his cold toes in case he has frostbite. In the back of his mind he wonders if he could ask her to marry him from the small act alone. Wonders what she would say as she doesn’t know him at all, his presence in her room foreign and unwarranted, despite the care she is giving him from their few moments of acquaintance. He knows if he were sober he wouldn’t be thinking in such a way but he cannot help himself, her tiny hands and soft golden hair setting something alight in his heart. He blinks down at her, listing to the side and falling to the bed when she shoves his shoulder.

“This... is not proper,” he snickers, unable to stop the laugh that crawls up his throat as she shoves him until he is on the side of the bed by the wall, trying to control the visions of romance in his mind under the guise of propriety and humour.

“Do I need to worry about you being _**improper**_?” she queries, wondering what she is thinking as she lays down next to him, keeping her dressing gown on to fight off the cold as she pulls the blanket and quilt up over them both.

“No,” the stranger yawns, already starting to fall asleep, still wrapped in his coat as his head lulls against the pillows, inhaling the soft smell of her hair from the fabric that covers the bed and letting the scent calm him, pulling him quickly into slumber. She stays awake for a little while after that. She can’t help but wonder what has gotten into her. Letting a stranger not only stay in her room, but allowing him to sleep beside her, no matter how platonic the relationship is. But there is something about him that makes her want to be near him. Something that compels her to trust him. To want to heal the sorrow that lurks behind the soft lines of his face and the dark embers of his eyes. She falls asleep with her glasses still on and the lamp burning as the clock tower strikes one.

He wakes her with a kiss on her forehead in the early hours of the dawn. She doesn’t have to be up as it’s Sunday, so she just makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, feeling his gentle fingers taking her glasses off and settling them on the bedside table, shutting off the lamp as he carefully lifts himself up and over her. It is still dark out, the soft sound of snow and ice pellets tinkling against the window, bathing London in a layer of winter.     

“Thank you,” he whispers as he puts his shoes on, trying not to pull her too far from slumber so that she cannot easily drift back off. She smiles softly, reaching out until she can touch the crook of his arm, the fabric still warm from where it had been pressed between his elbow and her hip, his arm wrapping around her in their slumber, unconsciously drawing heat from one another.

“Stay,” she breathes, her words unbidden by modesty in the darkness of the room and the truth of those in a state of suspended consciousness between asleep and awake.

“I can’t,” he replies, a soft chuckle in his voice.

“Don’t even know your name,” she mutters, her accent thick, not yet mellowed by the dialects of London after only a few weeks in the city, the intonation distorting the words enough that he takes a moment to understand her.   

“Patrick,” he answers, letting her tug him closer, her blurry eyes opening just enough so that she can see him as she leans up as if she is going to halt his exit. He can’t help himself, meeting her halfway so that he can press a gentle kiss against her lips, letting his tongue sweep over the seam of her mouth for a split second. She gasps into the motion, mouth falling open and allowing him entrance as he kisses her properly for a handful of heartbeats until he breaks away, watching as she falls back to the bed, snuggling into the pillows. He grins down at her, watching her sigh and curl into the blankets, searching for the little bit of heat the bedclothes still hold from where he has been laying.

“Patrick,” she murmurs into the pillow, a smile on her face, eyes fluttering closed as she drifts back to sleep. He watches her for a moment more before he makes his way quietly across the floor, opening the window and climbing through the frame until he is back outside, shivering in the blizzard as he closes the glass behind him before trudging down the road. As he reaches the end, he can’t help but glance backwards at the dormitories of the nursing school, wondering what the young woman will be specialising in. He wonders if Harold knows her and if he can somehow manage to garner a few shifts at the London in order to move back towards district practice now that the war is over. He shakes his head, smiling, as he hums to himself while wandering towards the nearest tube station.

When she wakes up a few hours later, groaning at the time and realising if she doesn’t hurry she’s going to be late for church, she wonders if everything had been a dream. Everything seems to be in its proper place within her room, save for a few watermarks on her books where snow had melted from the open window. The only evidence is the scarf she finds abandoned on the floor by her desk, the wool having caught against the wood, probably when he had tumbled in and onto the ground. She tries to think nothing more of the night, dressing and dashing to chapel just in time to say a quick prayer before mass starts, the feeling of the dark red wool against her neck calming and titillating all at once, the faint smell of his aftershave wafting into her senses every few moments. If she adds petition for the dark haired man with pain in his eyes to her prayers, no one knows except her and God.


	17. 16.5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked to write a follow-up for Chapter 16 on tumblr and because I am easily swayed by requests I couldn't resist.

The air is balmy regardless of the late hour, the heat having settled over London nearly two weeks prior and refusing to break, despite how it was barely July. The air was thick, but a slight breeze attempted to come up off the Thames, offering the occasional moment of relief from the temperature. Along with the oppressive warmth came a blackout, the city being plunged into darkness as wires melted and workers collapsed. For those that found solace in the dim light provided by candles and stars however, it was a blessing.

Shelagh lies with her head over Patrick’s heart, listening to the steady rhythm as they enjoy the night, ensconced in the walls of their back garden and upon the picnic blanket that had yet to be used. Angela and Timothy had been put to bed a while earlier, leaving the adults to carefully navigate the flat by candle light until Patrick convinced her to go outside when he felt the breeze through the open kitchen window.

“Tell me about when you came to London,” he says quietly, breath puffing into her hair and moving the strands that she has released from their pinned confinement once the children had been put down.

“Patrick,” she whispers, voice quiet in the darkness, not wanting to disturb the peace around them but not tired enough for her mind to quiet yet, glad of his questions, even though she is confused by what has caused them. “Do you really want to know?”  

“Mmhmm” he answers, not moving from his position other than to continue to stroke the bare skin of her arm, adoring that she has given up her blouses in exchange for a strappy top that he knows she would consider indecent to be seen in by anyone other than him.

“It wasn’t that exciting,” she mumbles, fingers tracing patters on his abdomen. “My father died just before Christmas in 1945. I had already applied to start nursing school the next year but once he was gone... I inquired if I could start earlier. Luckily someone had dropped out so I just came down from Scotland after New Years.”

“Had you always wanted to be in London?”

“I don’t know,” she confesses, fingers snagging on one of the buttons on his shirt until she manages to remove it, parting the fabric and letting her fingers skim across the tiny bit of skin she’s exposed on his stomach. “The war was over, I was young. I wanted to see the world. When my father died I saw no point in remaining in Inverurie.” She sighs then, still feeling the sting of loss from years before until she manages to force her emotions back under control. “Nursing helped. It kept me busy and distracted from my own thoughts. The matron was constantly challenging me to do better, not to mention trying to get me to speak more clearly. Poor dear had such trouble understanding my accent when I first started,” Shelagh giggles, imagining the stern woman’s face turning nearly purple when the young student pronounced things differently. Patrick laughs, dropping a kiss in her hair at the image, wishing he had known his wife when she was young, before she chose the religious life.

“Do you ever think of what it would have been like if we had met and fallen in love when you first came here?” He asks the question before he can stop himself, feeling how she stiffens slightly before sighing.

“Once or twice,” she replies, undoing another button until she can slide her entire hand beneath the fabric of his shirt, laying her palm on his warm skin and feeling each inhale and exhale. “But God had a plan for us. We may not have loved one another the way we do if things had been different. And I do not like to think of a world where Timothy doesn’t exist.”

“Mm,” he breathes, pulling her tighter into his chest, loving her concern for his son even though she has no genetic bond to the boy.

“Was it hard coming back home?” she queries, hoping he doesn’t avoid the question. His war neurosis is still something they don’t really talk about, despite how she wants to ask. He doesn’t stiffen or pull away, but rather sighs, his nose buried in her hair for a moment, eyes closed as the night closes in around them, the candles in the windows of their neighbours slowly going out as it gets later and later.  

“At first. The psychiatric hospital was difficult as I attempted to ignore what happened, as you know. Coming back to London after... I did not make the best of choices at first. I confess, I drank a lot,” he says, laughing suddenly.

“What is it?” Shelagh queries, turning her body slightly until she can rest her chin on his sternum, looking up at him.

“I did a few things that were exceptionally stupid when I was intoxicated,” he admits, grinning ruefully down at her.

“Tell me?” she requests, biting her lip, hoping that he can find some amusement in such a dark period of his life if they discuss it together.

“I... woke up in Hyde Park one morning. I had lost my shoes. To this day I have no idea where they went,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I also had the pleasure of waking up to find that the only contents of my kitchen were cakes.”

“Oh, Sister Monica Joan would have loved that,” she interjects, giggling at the image in her mind of the elderly nun invading Patrick’s kitchen to hoard all the sweets.

“I think the best story was when I broke into the nursing school dormitories though,” Patrick continues, stroking her shoulder as he looks up at the stars.

“You did not!” Shelagh gasps, her heart hammering in her chest as she sits up fully, looking down at her husband with shock plastered over her features, her hand pressing into his belly.

“I’m afraid I did my love,” he answers. “Not my proudest moment.” When she does nothing but blink down at him, he realises he should continue. “It was the middle of winter. I was trying to find the physician’s college dormitories where a friend of mine, Harold, was staying. I had obviously had a bit to drink and I ended up climbing through the window of this poor young nurse. I think I scared the life out of her.”

“What... what makes you say that?” she inquires, lowering herself back down onto his chest as he goes on.

“She was cowering on the bed until she realised I wasn’t actually there to harm her. She was... different I suppose,” he can’t help but muse over the word.

“Do I need to be worried about you running off with some nurse you met in the forties?” Shelagh teases, loving the way he rolls his eyes and surges up to place a kiss on her lips.

“Not in the slightest Love. Although I must admit, I did sleep with her,” he says it in a serious way but he can’t help but burst into laughter, partially because of her expression, and also because he cannot keep up the charade. “It was completely platonic Shelagh. She told me to go to sleep and tucked me into bed. Nothing happened save for sharing a mattress. I slept off the alcohol and was out of the room before dawn so as to make sure she didn’t get into trouble with the matron. I thought I might run into her at the London after, that I would be able to thank her for letting me stay, but I never did.”

He instantly feels at a loss when Shelagh gets up and goes darting into the house. He had never anticipated that she would react in such a way, especially as it had been fifteen years since the incident. He had been married and had a son since then, and was now married to her. Once upon a time he may have had a fleeting notion about the young nursing student, but he would never contemplate anything now that he had such an amazing wife who was his entire world. He was about to stand and go after her when he saw her come back out onto the patio, crossing the few stone slabs until she was again on the blanket next to him, dropping a loop of wool into his lap.

“I trained at St. Mary’s for the first six months that I spent in London. I just stayed in the dormitories at the London.” She gives no room for argument as she says the words, sitting down next to his hip as he looks at the material, turning the red wool over and over in his hands. “And it was not platonic, at least, not entirely. You kissed her. Kissed me.”

“What?” he asks, confused.

“You lost that, when you left that morning. It must have fallen off when you tumbled through the window. I didn’t find it until you had already gone and as I only had your Christian name I wasn’t sure where to start looking for you,” she explains, letting one hand rest on the ground on the opposite side of his body, her torso turned towards him as she smiles in the moonlight.

“It was you,” he gasps, sitting up until he can pull her into a sloppy kiss, his hand winding into her hair. He feels her smile against his lips as he manages to snake his tongue into her mouth just like he had done years before. She melts against him without hesitation, kicking one leg over his hips until she is straddling his waist, letting him devour her in the dark as he flips them over, careful of her head on the ground. “I wanted to ask you to marry me,” he says between kisses. “I knew it was stupid. I barely knew you. But the way you had taken care of me that night... Shelagh –”

“Shhh, things worked out like they were meant to,” she explains, cupping his cheek and forcing him back so that she can look into his eyes properly. “Now, if I remember correctly, that night I asked you if I needed to worry about you being improper.”

“I believe I told you that was something you did not need to worry about,” he answers, grinning.

“Mm, but we’re married now. The children are asleep, and the city is without power. I think you’re allowed to show me how improper you could have been,” she sighs, voice husky in the darkness as she nips at his jaw.

“My pleasure,” he chuckles, hands sliding up her thighs and under her skirt.

They wake up in the small hours of the morning cocooned together on the blanket, their clothes scattered about the lawn. Shelagh smacks Patrick’s arm as he manages to find her slip and pass it to her, squinting in the grey light of pre-dawn as she gets dressed before they both retreat into the house and up to their bedroom, his scarf from 1946 wrapped around her neck in hopes of hiding the love bites from the children if they wake up at the return of their parents. He strips it off her once they’re in the bedroom, adding more marks to her neck while she giggles, whispering in his ear that he was the first and only man she’s ever kissed.

 


	18. Chapter 18

He showed up at Nonnatus at the insistence of Sister Evangelina, the woman’s concern evident in her voice over the phone when she explained that Sister Bernadette had taken a tumble from her bike and hit her head. The younger woman insisted she was fine, despite Sister Evangelina’s concern over the temporary lack of consciousness that had occurred after the fall.  

“What are her symptoms?” Patrick asked, depositing his coat on the rack when Sister Evangelina invited him into the convent, his chest tight with concern.

“She was a bit confused at first. Wasn’t unconscious for very long, but enough that I thought it was a good idea to give you a ring,” Sister Evangelina explained, leaning against the wall, her features twisted with exhaustion and worry. “She seemed to be a little dizzy as she stumbled when I helped her up. Complained of feeling a bit ill and that she had a headache, but I would assume the headache was from the nasty knock on the head.” He nodded in response, noting Sister Monica Joan’s appearance at the top of the stairs. “Is Sister Bernadette in bed then?”

“She is taking a bath,” Sister Monica Joan answered airily just as Sister Julienne came in the front door. Patrick felt his vision blur at the notion.

“Sister, she has a **_concussion_** , she should not be left alone in the bath,” he hastened, already heading for the stairs, ignoring the fact that he wasn’t sure his presence was allowed.

“Surely the girl is allowed to remove the dirt from her flesh,” Sister Monica Joan mumbled, heading for the kitchen as Sisters Evangelina and Julienne followed the physician, Sister Evangelina explaining what had happened as they went.

“Sister Bernadette,” he called, knocking on the door to the bathroom. No response came from behind the wooden barricade, silence permeating the air around them. “Sister, I need you to answer me otherwise I’m going to have to come in.” Again, nothing happened. Patrick took a deep breath, shoving the door open, his stomach instantly in his mouth at the sight that greeted him.

The water in the bath lapped gently against the edges of the tub, the only part of the young woman exposed being that of her hand which lay lifelessly on the rim of porcelain. He didn’t hesitate as he crossed the tiles, seeing the pale form of the woman beneath the surface of the water, her eyes closed. The sight nearly killed him in a single breath.

His heart pounded in his chest as he thrust his hands into the water, hooking her under the arms and yanking her from the bath. Her body was limp against his as he laid her on the ground, immediately dropping to his knees, feeling for a pulse in her neck, a wave of nausea passing through him when he didn’t find one. He bent forward, plugging her nose and breathing into her mouth harshly, inflating her lungs before he tipped back onto his heels, hands pressing against her chest as he counted out compressions in his head, desperate to get her heart to start beating.

Vaguely he could hear the women behind him praying, their voices not truly reaching his ears as he continued to pound on the bare flesh beneath him, ignoring the impropriety of seeing the woman below him naked. He didn’t care in that moment. Did not take in the colour of her hair, a sight he had never seen before. Did not let his eyes rove over the body he imagined in his weaker moments. None of that mattered if she wasn’t breathing. He huffed another breath into her lungs, fingers slipping on her wet skin, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

“Please,” he whispered, hands pushing at her sternum, his palms laced together between her breasts, desperate for her to breathe. “Please.”

“Go forth from this world: in the love of God the Father who created you, in the mercy of Jesus Christ who redeemed you, in the power of the Holy Spirit who strengthens you. May the heavenly host sustain you and the company of heaven enfold you. In communion with all the faithful, may you dwell this day in peace,” Sister Julienne was saying.

“Amen,” Sister Evangelina responded, her voice cracking on the word.

“NO!” Patrick yelled over his shoulder, barely removing his gaze from the closed eyes of the woman beneath him. He wasn’t going to accept their prayers as they were for someone who was dying. Someone on the brink of death. Despite the lack of pulse he could not believe that the woman beneath his hands was anything but alive. As if heeding his refusal the body beneath him lurched.

The first thing she felt was her entire torso heaving, lungs and stomach frantically trying to expel water and stomach contents. His strong hands gripped her arm and shoulder, rolling her onto her side, the white noise of the nuns’ panicked tones filling her ears before she was able to focus on one single voice as her chest and stomach rebelled again.

“Oh God, please don’t aspirate. Please don’t aspirate.” The voice was deep and breathless. In some capacity she recognized it, but it was a fleeting notion, her body trying to draw in much needed oxygen, as gentle fingers pressed into her mouth, scooping out the fluids that had collected in her cheek. The heaving stopped after a few moments and when she could finally breathe in properly she felt the same hands roll her back off her side. She blinked her eyes open, the bright light cascading in through the bathroom window nearly blinding the little bit of sight she had without the aid of her glasses. The hands, she soon discovered, belonged to Doctor Turner, his face close enough that she could make out his features as he frantically ran his fingers over her, checking for injuries beyond the bump on her head that had evidently caused the horrified look on his face. She saw the moment he was able to calm himself, a shuddering sigh escaping him as he dropped his forehead to rest against hers.

“I love you,” he said, loud enough to stop the chatter from Sister Julienne and Sister Evangelina who were whispering broken praises to God in the doorway. For a moment, she felt dizzy again, the words bouncing around her head. “I love you,” he repeated, cupping her cheek as he leaned a tiny bit closer, pressing his lips to hers, not caring about anything in that moment except for making sure she knew of his devotion and care for her. She kissed him back without thinking, her heart pounding beneath her ribs, her chest sore from the cardiopulmonary resuscitation and from the affection that was sluicing through her veins at the touch of the man’s lips to her own. She raised a shaking hand, tangling it in his hair, confused when he pulled away, a sob breaking from him. “I thought I lost you,” he said, voice quavering in the odd silence of the bathroom.

“I’m right here,” she assured him, fingers teasing the hair at the nape of his neck for a moment before she shivered, gasping when she realised her state of undress. Without missing a beat he sat back, stripping off his blazer, the sleeves damp as he hastily wrapped it around her, pulling her body into his lap, his arms ensnaring her against his chest as he peppered kisses into her wet hair.

“Doctor Turner, I must protest,” Sister Julienne’s ice filled voice began from the doorway, drawing Sister Bernadette’s attention, her gaze squinting in an attempt to see the features on the older woman’s face.     

“Oh give me strength,” Sister Evangelina muttered. “Sister, let the poor kids alone. You can blow your top later,” she continued, grabbing Sister Julienne by the elbow and dragging her from the room, closing the door behind them. Patrick could hear Sister Julienne’s rising ire from the hallway, her exposition of anger in every word that spilled from her lips, the majority of them concerning the impropriety and forbidden words and actions they had just witnessed. Sister Evangelina’s only heard response was one of ‘You must have been willfully blind if you did not see this coming.’

“Let’s get you dressed and then I’ll check your concussion,” he murmured, nose buried in her wet hair as he rocked the tiny female in his arms.

“Mm,” she agreed, letting him stand, keeping her against his chest as he carried her to her room. “You said you love me.”

“I did,” he confirmed, looking into her eyes, feeling himself enraptured by the clear blue. “I meant it. I have meant it for quite some time now. I’m sorry if this comes unbidden and unwanted for you, but I cannot go one more day –”

“Kiss me again,” she said, cutting him off as she grabbed his tie, pulling him close. He did not contradict her request, letting their lips meet again. A few more seconds before checking her concussion couldn’t hurt.  


	19. Chapter 19

She starts counting the steps as she walks away from him.

One, two, three...

It’s something she’s done since she was a child. When something was wrong, when she desperately needed to focus on the bigger picture, or to simply get herself out of a situation she would count. The number of steps from her bedroom to her parents’ when she was little and had a nightmare. The number of steps from her room to the garden when she wanted to escape the sounds of her drunken father after her mother died; the solace of the outdoors second to only that of the comfort she got from going to the little church down the street. The number of steps from the front door of Nonnatus to the chapel. The steps to freedom. Steps that she now felt were so far from what she was doing – where she was going. The looming building ahead of her felt more like a prison than any source of freedom she had ever known.

Four, five, six...

The diagnosis of her tuberculosis had come as a shock, the acute breathlessness she felt on occasion something she attributed to either exhaustion or simply the presence of the man she now walked away from. With every inch that increased between them she felt as if she may break. The gravel crunched beneath her shoes, reminding her of the choice she was making. The silence she was keeping as she refused to let her heart speak for her, allowing her head the ability to rule her words, the only sound that of the stones and of her laboured breathing as she tried to temper her emotions.

Seven, eight, nine...

She always imagined her life would be different than it was in that moment. When she was little she thought about getting married. Having children. Growing old with someone that she adored. When she witnessed the decline of her father and felt drawn to the Church her outlook had changed. She never thought she would want to leave the convent and the camaraderie of her sisters. But that notion too shifted over time. She no longer felt drawn to be married to only God, but instead allowed the fleeting desires for the marriage and children she had once fantasised about when she was young to come back. She had been young enough to run around in the garden then, clad in nothing more than a simple frock and carrying a bunch of flowers she had liberated from the edge of the forest, but the desire was the same. To be wrapped in the arms of someone that cared for her. To cling to one person for the rest of her life. She had pushed the thoughts away for so long before he kissed her hand. Had managed to suppress them again after the fact, driven by the knowledge that there was work to be done; patients to be cared for. But walking up the endless driveway towards the unknown frightened her more than she could ever admit, and, without warning, the walls she had fortified time and time again quickly began to crumble.

Ten, eleven, **_twelve_**...

She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go into that building, into uncertainty, without him knowing that he was not alone in his feelings. Couldn’t bear the thought that the last time she saw his face would be when she could not even stand to say goodbye, the forlorn look on his features driving her to turn her back on him. But she couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t take another step forward, her feet halted at twelve and refusing to budge one more inch towards the building.

“Sister Bernadette?” he called, concern laced in each letter of the name she had chosen a decade before. She dropped her bag, her hands no longer able to support the weight, as she turned, eyes burning as she took in the sight of him, so close and yet so far away still. As much as he tried to cover his worry, she could see through the cracks in his façade, the lines on his face betraying his true emotions. She didn’t think, did not allow herself time to let her brain talk her out of something she wanted, needed, to get through the next phase in her life. Something she desperately required to feel before she could subject herself to the uncertainty of treatment for an illness that laced through her body.

Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one...

The steps were quicker on the way back, her feet sure in their path as she ran the distance from her bag to him, throwing herself into his chest, her arms wrapping around his neck as she pulled him down, kissing him frantically. She felt him let out a surprised huff of breath but he did not break away; his hands coming to quickly rest on her hips, tugging her impossibly closer until they were pressed completely together. The kiss was frenzied but chaste at the same time, their lips moving together while his hands roved over the small of her back, his breath hitching when she finally had to part from him. He cupped her jaw, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb as he turned her chin up so that he could look in her eyes, getting lost in the clear blue for a moment before she spoke.

“Promise me that I will be all right. Promise me this is the beginning of us and not the end,” she whispered, sounding broken and terrified in the still air that encompassed them.

“I promise. I promise that you will be well, and when you are released we can start a life together, in whatever capacity that you wish.”

“And if I want everything? If I want to leave the convent; be your wife?”

“Then I shall ask you to marry me the moment you are free.” He kissed her again, unable to stop the tear that slid down his cheek, landing on her skin before he pulled away. “Go and get better.”

When she took the steps back towards the sanatorium, the twelve to her suitcase, and the fifteen after to the front door, she no longer feared what awaited her.

Six months later, he was waiting in the drive when she was released, a ring in his hand as he dropped to one knee on the gravel, the stones crunching together as he asked her to marry him.

She said yes without hesitation.     


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for domestic violence but nothing too severe.

He meets her father a few times.

The first time she has just come to Nonnatus, only been there a few months, when the older man shows up for a visit. He’s preoccupied with his own life, exhausted from a teething infant at home who spends most of the night crying, and a wife who is running out of patience. She introduces him to the man, Adair, with little hesitation as he comes into the clinical room to use the autoclave. She seems different in that moment somehow, more timid, voice quiet and subdued in a way that he isn’t used to.

He shakes the man’s hand, tells him that his daughter is doing good works in Poplar, and goes about his task. When the man leaves a week later, he notices the slight purpling on the tiny bit of exposed skin on the back of her neck, but he doesn’t ask about it. Doesn’t know her well enough to really consider himself any more than a co-worker to the tiny nun, despite the sense of camaraderie he knows could brew quite easily if he lets it. He asks her if she is well, and she confirms that she is, and that is the end of it.

The second time he meets the man is nine years later. His wife has been gone nearly a year, his son a constant worry, and the autoclave again acting up to the point that he cannot use the one at the surgery. Exhausted though he is, he wanders into the convent, bag dragging heavily at his side as he makes his way to the clinical room, depositing his things on the table before sighing.

He hears their voices before he sees them, both rich with Scottish accents, as they enter into the room. Her father looks more haggard than the last time he saw him, his hair now completely grey instead of the salt and pepper combination it had been in 1949. She seems shocked to find him in the semi-darkness of the room, her eyes wide as she fidgets, an action he has never truly seen from her before then.

“I’m sorry Doctor, I didn’t know you were here,” she says, voice quiet.

“Not to worry Sister. This is your father, yes?” he queries, leaning against the counter for a beat.

“Yes,” she confirms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Nice to see you again Sir,” Patrick says, extending his hand to the older man. Adair takes it, shaking it, his eyes surveying the physician critically.

“You’re the doctor, aye?” he inquires, eyes hard. They’re a dark hazel, so different than the clear blue of his daughter’s that it takes Patrick a moment to even find a slight resemblance between the two of them. Their noses are similar, he concludes, but there is not much else.

“Yes, Patrick Turner,” he affirms, trying not to see her reaction to his Christian name, knowing she has never heard it before now.

“You keepin’ me daughter in line?” Adair asks, a strange tone in his voice that makes Patrick’s skin break out into gooseflesh.

“I would rather think it is she who keeps me in order,” he replies, trying to laugh but knowing the sound is hollow. Sister Bernadette keeps her eyes on the ground, not acknowledging any of the conversation, instead focused on something in the far corner of the room. Adair makes a sound of recognition before nodding.

“C’man dall caileag,” he says, motioning for the woman to follow him out of the room. She does so without hesitation, not sparing Patrick even a parting glance.

A few days later, he encounters them again, but not in the way he anticipated. It’s late, just gone one in the morning. He should be getting home to Timothy who has already gone to bed hours before, but the last birth ran longer than he anticipated. The hissed voice is unmistakably male in the darkness, the only light coming from the parlour. He knows curiosity is often disastrous, but he cannot help but peer around the corner, his heart dropping into his stomach at the sight before him.   

“Sibh dall sgliùrach,” Adair growls, his hand coming down with a sharp crack against Sister Bernadette’s face, the woman cowering on the ground at his feet. Patrick can already see a bruise blooming across her cheek, evidence that the strike he witnesses is not the first she has endured that night. The **_belt_ ** that is discarded on the sofa, however, sets his blood alight with rage. Had the man already used it? Had he been beating the woman at his feet with the strip of leather mere moments before? Sister Bernadette’s eyes are closed against the onslaught, her glasses discarded on the other side of the carpet, her clothes slightly askew. He can see a tiny bit of blood blooming through the fabric on her shoulder, the dark blue tinted crimson in the dim light.

“What the HELL are you doing?” Patrick booms, noting how the elder man is going to hit her again. He is across the carpet in a heartbeat, his hands, weathered from years of field work during the war and district practice for the last decade, holding strong to Adair’s wrist, keeping the man from striking again.

“I’ll bloody well do what I like with my luid of a daughter,” he retaliates, attempting to take a swing at the physician. Although Patrick has never really engaged in combat, the military training he received before going to Italy is quickly in the forefront of his mind as he grabs the man, pinning his wrists to the small of his back before shoving him into the hallway towards an open airing cupboard. Adair curses him, struggling to be released, but soon finds himself thrown against the shelving, the door slamming shut behind him. Panicking, Patrick grabs the bench from the opposite side of the hallway, dragging the heavy wood until he can prop it under the door, keeping it closed as he lets out a sigh.

The commotion, although drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears, has not gone unnoticed by the other occupants of the house however. Sister Evangelina and Trixie appear at the top of the landing, both frantically struggling into their dressing gowns as they rush down the stairs wearing twin alarmed expressions. Patrick’s chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, his heart pounding as he turns to Sister Evangelina.

“Call the police and tell them there’s been a case of domestic violence. And don’t go near that closet till the police are with you,” he rushes, a hand running through his hair as he tries to calm himself enough so that his emotions are not as close to the surface as he creeps back into the room. The sight that greets him when he turns the corner almost breaks him.

The strong, vibrant woman who he has come to call colleague and friend over the last while is positively shattered. She is curled in on herself tightly, her back pressed against the hard edge of Sister Julienne’s chair with her arms shielding her face. He can tell she’s crying, her body lurching as she tries to suck in air, preparing for another attack that is, thankfully, not coming. He approaches her slowly, picking up her glasses before crouching down in front of her, far enough away so that she doesn’t feel threatened, but close enough that he can get to her in an instant.

“Sister,” he whispers, trying to get her attention. She doesn’t reply, just hiccups a sob, trying to make herself even smaller than she already is. “It’s all right, you’re all right now. He can’t get you.” She moves an arm slightly then, squinting out at him from behind her shield, relaxing when she realises he is alone with her in the room. Trixie stands nervously in the doorway but doesn’t enter, knowing that the doctor is doing better than she is able in that moment, his movements slow and calculated as he reaches out, offering the shaken woman her glasses. She takes them hesitantly, her hands quivering as she affixes them back to her face. It is only then that he can see the true damage to her cheek. Already purpling in the light, a small cut along her ocular bone, seeping blood at a sluggish pace, staining her pale skin as it moves towards her jawbone.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks, tears slipping through her lashes as she clenches her eyes shut.

“Shh, you have nothing to apologise for,” he assures her. “May I help you up? We should get that seen to,” he adds. She shrugs noncommittally, clearly still trembling as he goes to offer her his hand. When she struggles to pull herself up, he takes the liberty to scoop her up off the floor, holding her close to his chest as he carries her. She’s startling light in his arms, her body immediately curling in on his as they make their way to the stairs, her face hidden in his neck, Trixie waving him on silently as she guides him towards Sister Bernadette’s room. Sister Evangelina remains a steadfast pillar near the closet, having sat down on the edge of the bench to increase the weight of it. She seems unfazed by the angry yelling, half in English and half in Gaelic, that resounds from behind the wooden door. The sight of the younger nun, however, seems to strike her as her face crumbles while Patrick mounts the stairs.     

“What do you need?” Trixie asks softly, not wanting to startle the sobbing woman as she opens the door.

“My bag, please, and a clean pair of scissors, a suture kit, and a bowl of warm water,” he replies, voice level as he walks into the room, letting Trixie hastily retreat as he lays Sister Bernadette on the mattress. She clings to his jumper, forcing him to sit at her hip, his eyes skimming over her body for any additional injuries. “I need to look at your shoulder.” He hates the way she winces at the words, but she complies, struggling until she’s sitting up, her shaking hands undoing first the buttons on her habit, followed by those on her smock, the strap of her slip sliding off her shoulder and smearing the blood that is oozing there. The cut isn’t very big, but it looks deep enough that Patrick knows it needs stitches, the belt having evidently been brought down with startling force for it to have injured her through all the fabric.

“I’m sorry, I can tend to this myself,” she says, trying to push him away, stoic in emotion but firm in tone of voice.

“No, you can’t. You need stitches,” he retaliates, noticing how there are somewhat faded bruises across her shoulders and collarbone, evidence that this is not the first time her father has hit her since he arrived. “How long has this been going on?” he queries. She freezes for a moment before her defiant silence dissolves.

“Since my mother died,” she confesses. “As I said, I can take care of it myself.” He grabs her chin then, forcing her to look at him.

“You do not have to do this alone. What he did to you... he has no right to treat you in such a way,” Patrick insists, watching her eyes dart around until they meet his, softening from the anger she had been riddled with among her pain. Trixie returns a moment later to find them sitting in the same position. She doesn’t ask questions, simply settling the water and required items that Patrick requested on the bedside table before taking her leave. He doesn’t speak, tending to her wounds as gently as possible, his hands and head intent on healing while his heart breaks for her.

“He... he called me a tart,” she says after a while, once there are stitches in the skin over shoulder and collarbone, iodine being used to clean the cut on her cheek. Patrick looks up at her, willing her to continue, to explain the Gaelic he heard but didn’t understand. “A blind tart. And a trollop. I’ve...” her voice breaks then, eyes clenching shut as she rips her glasses off, throwing them onto the bedside table as tears slide down her cheeks, one catching in the iodine and sending a tinted river of moisture towards her chin. “I’ve never even kissed a man. How can I be a trollop when I’ve never even been kissed?” She says the words with venom, her anguish palpable in the room, fists clenching against the bed sheets as she draws her knees up to her chest.

“We can change that,” he says, offhandedly.

“What?” she inquires, confusion laced in the word, eyes wide as she tries to read his slightly blurry features.

“I could kiss you. Then there would at least be some truth to the words.” He immediately thinks he should not have said what he did, about to open his mouth and hastily apologise when a bark of laughter erupts from her. Soon, he is chuckling too, watching how the fear and anguish that had been on her face evaporates as she giggles, nearly glowing with mirth, exhaustion and stress giving way to the giddy reaction. He knows that this isn’t the end, that she will likely have to go over things with the police and will quickly be plummeted back into a state of discontent, but he is elated that he can provide her with even a moment of solace. The room suddenly feels stifling as she leans towards him, still chortling softly, her eyes half lidded, flickering between his gaze and his lips. He hasn’t felt the tightness in his stomach that occurs since before Marianne died and, without thinking, he makes good on his promise, leaning forward and sealing his lips to hers.

Sister Bernadette reacts unexpectedly, a soft moan slipping from the back of her throat while her hand comes up to tangle in his hair. Her movements are slow and unsure, her lips tentative in the way they slide against his, opening for him when he slides his tongue along the seam. He wants to open his eyes, to see what she looks like in this moment, to see how her features change with physical intimacy, but he cannot bring himself to halt the sensations that kissing her like this is bringing him. Their tongues tangle for a moment before she slowly pulls back, breathing hard, cheeks stained pink, the colour blending with the darkening bruise on the left half of her face as she relaxes into his palm. He isn’t even sure when he raised his hand to cup her cheek, but he doesn’t bother to question it, too absorbed in the calm expression that is now covering every inch of her.  

“Tha gaol agam ort,” she breathes, resting her forehead against his.

“I love you too,” he grins, heart thudding beneath his ribs. It is the only Gaelic he knows.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one. I’ve had so much fun writing these. I will probably be starting work on a series of first meetings next week (although I will probably only do 10 of them). Please feel free to send prompt or ideas you’d like to see - I adore hearing from all of you. Your comments and input make my day. Thank you so much for reading all of these. <3

It’s barely two in the afternoon and already Sister Bernadette feels as if she could sleep for a week. Her district patients that morning had been trying to say the least, at least two of them spending an inordinate amount of time complaining about their medications, despite how the dosages had already been modified at least three times. She finally manages to escape back to Nonnatus but ends up with only a few moments to grab a piece of bread and butter before she finds herself rushing down to the clinic. She hadn’t slept well the night before, tossing and turning until the small hours of the morning when she got up for prayers, a headache brewing behind her eyes like the storm clouds that have been threatening London for the last few days.

“Has Doctor Turner arrived yet?” Cynthia asks, coming over to where Sister Bernadette is sitting at the admit desk, patient notes stacked up next to her as she tries to sort out the vaccination schedule for the children she can hear in the hallway with their mothers, everyone waiting for the clock to strike two as thunder rumbles in the distance.

“No,” Sister Bernadette replies, taking her glasses off for a moment to rub the bridge of her nose, wondering if there is any aspirin in the kitchen.

“I swear that man is late for everything,” she hears Trixie grumble, the blonde dragging the last privacy screen out before she takes a turn around the room, checking to make sure everything else is already prepared.

“Men are never on time,” Sister Evangelina calls from the kitchen, making the nurses giggle as Jenny goes to open the doors, the flood of patients coming into the hall immediately making Sister Bernadette’s headache worse. She smiles at them, taking their names on rote, assigning each to the proper location or cubicle while Cynthia goes around with the juice and milk tokens.

A few moments later, when there seems to be a lull in patients, she ducks into the kitchen, flipping the kettle on for tea while managing to scrounge some aspirin from Sister Evangelina’s bag, the older woman giving her a sympathetic smile while watching her down the medication, using her hand to scoop water from the tap into her mouth, too impatient to wait for the tea. As she glances out the window the sky breaks, rain suddenly pelting down. Vaguely, she hears some of the women making a frantic dash to the doors to get their children from outside, the babies having being left in their prams while milk tickets and prenatal checkups were being attained. For some reason, she finds the situation funny, chuckling in the back of her throat as she pours the boiling water into the teapot, waiting for it to steep while glancing out of the hatch, the now damp women trudging back into the building as lightning flashes outside.

It isn’t surprising that the storm has finally hit, the immense heat has been building for days, the grass scorched and desperate for water. She finds herself watching the rain for a moment, feeling as if the action is cathartic. For days she has felt like she is wandering in the desert, her own tribulation of conscience, but she cannot find comfort nor redemption. She yearns for something, but she cannot place what it is, nor give voice to the feelings inside her, confused as to what they are, to what they mean. All she knows is that she feels as if she is standing at fork in the road, her soul dying of thirst like the grass outside, but she has yet to be given the gift of a rainstorm. Lost alone in the wilderness, seeking solace from a source she does not know.

She shakes her head, trying to pull herself out of the state of contemplation she has dissolved into, pouring herself a cup of tea before she grabs a second cup and saucer, making one for the doctor who she is sure will come through the doors at any moment, carrying them both back out to the desk. After a few sips she feels her headache lessen slightly, but only just, knowing that it won’t truly dissipate until the storm passes and she is able to clear her own thoughts, but the relief is welcome regardless.

She’s just getting back into the patient files when the door bangs open, Doctor Turner rushing into the parish hall in a swirl of his wet overcoat, a worn-down expression on his features as he brushes his damp fringe out of his face, hanging his coat by the door so as not to track as much water across the tiles. Vaguely, she hears Jenny call out to him, asking him to come round to the cubicle she’s in once he’s gotten his lab coat.

“Sorry I’m late,” he rushes, stopping to grab the stack of papers from the table.

“Not to worry. Here, I’ve made you a cup of tea, get yourself warmed up for a moment,” Sister Bernadette says, gesturing to the still steaming drink. The expression that crosses his face at the statement is one she has not really seen before, elation and affection dancing across his features at the simple action.

“You are absolutely wonderful,” he murmurs, ducking down and pressing his lips to hers before he straightens up, takes the tea cup, and walks towards the cubicles. She blinks for a moment, staring blankly. That can’t have just... he didn’t just...

She looks around frantically then, finding Sister Evangelina, mouth agape, a few feet away, the patient she had been talking to glancing around to see what has the older woman so startled. Trixie is on the other side of the room, an equally flabbergasted expression on her face, her blue eyes wide as she glances between the two nuns.

Sister Bernadette feels as if she can’t breathe for a moment, her mind spinning, heart hammering in her chest. He had kissed her. Doctor Turner had kissed her. All because of a cup of tea.

She buries herself with the files, unable to think beyond that single resounding chant in her head.

_He kissed me. He kissed me. He kissed me._

She can’t go further than that, unsure of the feeling of elation that has overtaken every atom of her being; her soul feeling as if it has finally been granted the drink of water she has been so desperate for. Her headache becomes a mere memory, her hands shaking for the next few hours as she fills in patient information, schedules appointments, and gives basic advice to the women who come by her.

She doesn’t see him other than the occasional blur of white coat from the corner of her eye as he moves from one cubicle to the other, the room humming with unsaid words from the nurses and Sister Evangelina. She cannot bear to wonder what they’re thinking or what they might say, for if she is honest with herself, she does not care what their opinions are. She has never felt more complete than she had in that moment of him kissing her. It wasn’t something like in the romance novels she knows Jenny and Chummy secretly read in the dim hours of the night. Not a grand sweeping gesture.

It was simple. **_Pure_**. An action born of affection; one that spoke of devotion and understanding and was laced with the feeling of being something that was so normal, so natural, that it could occur without premeditation or thought between the two of them.

Her desert was being alone; her oasis, her redemption, being the love of the man who kissed her as if he had done it a hundred times before, and would do it a thousand times over for the rest of their lives.

By the time the last patient leaves, she can feel the tension bubbling around her. The nurses are gathered together at the far end of the hall, whispering hastily among themselves as Sister Evangelina finally closes the doors, ushering the last woman back out into the rain. Sister Bernadette cannot bear to get up, her knees suddenly weak at the thought as she sees the older woman crossing the floor.

Instead of stopping at the desk to bark out admonishments, however, she passes the girl, going over to where Doctor Turner has just ducked out of a cubicle. She doesn’t hesitate, raising her hand and cuffing him upside the head, making him let out a yelp of surprise, his own hand immediately going up to rub at the spot where he has just been struck.

“Bloody stupid man,” Sister Evangelina scolds. “Doing something like that in public. You’re lucky that none of the patients saw.” He looks pained at her words, a blush creeping up his normally placid features, staining his cheeks in a way that makes Sister Bernadette want to kiss him again, unused to the shyness that is eclipsing his normal personality.

The nurses look alarmed, as if they are waiting for an explosion; for Sister Evangelina to ream him out even more before she turns on Sister Bernadette, reprimanding her as well. Instead, she lets out a groan, rolling her eyes, chuckling slightly.

“You need to work on your timing Doctor Turner. Come along you lot,” she adds, motioning for the nurses to follow her out of the clinic, telling them to clean their things back at Nonnatus. The young women obey without further question, despite how Trixie tries to lean backwards to see if anything else is happening just before they exit the building.

As the outside door closes, silence settles over the two remaining occupants, neither knowing what to say. Sister Bernadette stands, unable to stay at the desk any longer, turning so that she is facing Doctor Turner fully, wringing her hands as she waits for him to speak. He takes a moment, inhaling deeply as the thunder that had abated starts up anew, the rolling noise echoing through the empty hall.

“I kissed you,” he says, unable to meet her eyes.

“Yes,” she affirms, throat tight, barely allowing her to get out the single syllable.

“I’m so sorry-” he starts, halting when he sees the expression on her face, sadness filling every pore as she looks down at the tiles, her eyes starting to water.

“Did you mean it?” she queries. “The kiss?”

“How do you mean?” he retaliates, unsure of what response she is looking for.

“Did you mean to kiss me?” she rephrases, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. He considers the question for a moment, palms sweating against the thick linen of his lab coat as he ponders how to reply.

“Did I make the conscious decision to kiss you in that moment? No, I didn’t,” he starts, careful not to pause for more than half a breath, watching how her entire body tenses. “But have I wondered what it would be like to kiss you before then? Yes. I have thought about kissing you every day. When I am struggling, I think of what it would be to come home to you. To kiss you hello, and to have you to hold in my arms at night when the shadows are too much to endure alone. I have imagined telling you a thousand times how I feel for you. So when you ask if I meant to kiss you today, over a cup of tea, and in the middle of the clinic, no, I didn’t. If I had known I would act upon the things I have dreamt about so many times, I would have paid more attention, because I do not want to think that the emotions I felt touching my lips to yours for the first time were imagined like they have been so many times before. I would have wanted to savour them. To bask in them, in their reality, and in you,” he explains. He is terrified that he has said too much. Confessed too much. Exposed too much of his heart to her in that moment. He closes his eyes, awaiting a slap across the face; for her voice to become cold as she rejects him – tells him that they can never be.

“Then kiss me again,” she whispers, voice suddenly so close that he can feel her breath against his skin. “Kiss me again and know that you are not alone. That I have wondered what it would like to be to kiss you as well. That I want nothing more than to know what it is to kiss you good morning every dawn, and goodnight every time the moon rises.”

He opens his eyes long enough to reach forward and cup her cheek, smiling as he leans down, pressing their lips together.

Thunder crashes above them, but they pay it no heed, finally finding solace in one another.


End file.
